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IN THE CAMAKGUE. 


BY 

EMILY BOWLES, 

n 


** There shall never he one lost good; what was, shall live as before; 

The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound ; 

What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more ; 

On the earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven a perfect round.’* 

— Browning. 


> 

) * * 

» » 


/ 


XiOniNGr, Fublislier, 


Con. Bromfield and Washington Streets, 


BOSTON. 





Kockwell and Chitbcuill, 
PRINTERS AND STEREOTYPERS, 
39 Arch St., Boston. 




I'-""- ^ 


» * 

» * 


•' O 

€ fO 


IN THE CAMARGUE, 


CHAPTER L 

WHERE IS IT? 

Very early dawn, lighting up with slant rays a 
strange landscape, apparently some African desert of 
level sand, glittering with small shining particles like 
beads, and studded with the golden stars of a particular 
kind of aster. The stagnant waters of a vast salt lake 
gleam under the morning rays, like a sheet of oil, and 
the dawn has awakened a vast multitude of sea-birds, 
cranes, wild ducks, and flamingoes, which are diving and 
splashing with mournful cries in the passive water and 
enormous masses of reeds which hedge the banks. Afar 
off — and it is the only relief to the sad-colored monot- 
ony of the scene — is a wood of Aleppo pines, whose 
umbrella heads and rich, massive green are a positive 
refreshment to the eye. Is it Asia, Africa, or part of 
some trans-oceanic world? 

Only the south of France, — ‘‘Sunny Provence/’ 
lovely Languedoc, by poetical license. 


4 


m THE CAMARGUE, 


Between the pine wood and the lake lay a sort of farm. 
Ash-colored buildings, roofed with reeds, and crusted 
with the small, floating moss which the damp misiral 
generates, contained a few rooms in which the really 
wealthy owner lived, with his mother and daughter, — 
in what he considered great comfort and respectability. 
Around his tumble-down house, tumble-down fences 
enclosed a fine orchard of mulberry and almond trees, 
besides rich crops of rye, lucerne, and barley, with a 
quantity of vegetables. Long stacks of bees also showed 
that honey was a plentiful article of food ; and a large 
out-house, stacked in the usual manner wuth divisions 
and partition-walls of brushwood, sounded to the ear of 
the passer-by like a gigantic watchmaker’s shop, from 
the multitude of silkworms now spinning their cocoons. 
The farm consisted of a large kitchen, with the marmite, 
which was the usual sitting-room, a second rough kitchen 
or scullery where the dirty work was done, and an out- 
rooin in which the fuel of driftwood, dried cattle-60 
and a little pine, were stored, as well as the various tools 
and implements used on the farm. 

Beyond this was a rough, wattled fowl-house, and a 
large, flat pool for ducks, whose inmates and frequenters 
were now clucking and quacking at the height of their 
powers. Perhaps it was in obedience to their loud sum- 
mons and appeal for freedom that a door opened at the 
bottom of a staircase leading to the three rooms above 
the kitchen, and a girl, of about sixteen, just glanced 

* The house is dried and used in the Crau and Camargue as fuel, 
exactly as among the Arabs. 


IN THE CAMARGUE, 


5 


at the clumsy but trustworthy clock over the shelves 
adorned with crockery, and, taking a basket of refuse 
grain from a stand, went out and liberated the poultry, 
who instantly rushed, tumbling over each other, as if 
each of their lives hung upon being the foremost to catch 
the scattered grain on the ground. 

While the happy creatures pecked, and scuffled, and 
fought over each separate barley-corn, the girl, who had 
at first smiled and looked interested as the fowls gathered 
about her, tame enough to jump up and catch the grain 
from her hand, now stood shading her eyes from the 
level sun rays, and looking intently across the sandy 
plain. Her smile vanished, and the expression of her 
face became intensely earnest, far-reaching, and sad. 

It w^as a wonderful countenance for a girl of six'teen 
to possess. A pale, sensitively drawn face, with every 
nerve and muscle as fine as those of a high-bred Arab ; 
a delicate nose, slightly dilated at the nostrils ; the love- 
liest curved lips ; and long, yellow-brown, thick-fringed 
eyes, surrounded with pale violet shadow, — eyes like 
fixthomless mountain pools now, soft with feeling and the 
most ignorantly innocent affection, but revealing a vol- 
cano of Provencal passion, a lava compounded of those 
strange Greek and Saracen elements not easily to be 
described or kept within bounds. Woe be to the man 
who should stir it in its depths, and to the day when it 
should be stirred ! With the exception of the lips, there 
was not a particle of color in Noel Privas’s face, and the 
skin was almost Egyptian in its pale, clear brown. Her 
hair was very long, fine, and silky, dusk rather than 


6 


m THE CAMARGUE, 


purple-blackj and was plaited and wound in thick fillets 
round her exquisite head, so as to give the impression of 
her being crowned. Thin, and brown, and colorless, it 
might be, but Noel Privas’s face had a wonderful beauty 
of its own to eyes that were experienced and a mind that 
discerned. 

^‘Noel! Noel!” called a harsh, loud voice from the 
stairs. ‘‘What are you doing, child? Is the kitchen 
swept and the marmite kindled? ” 

The girl started and turned towards the voice. “I 
have been feeding the fowls, grandmother. I am going 
to sweep the kitchen now.” She threw down the re- 
mainder of the grain, and hastened into the kitchen, 
tying on a coarse apron as she did so. 

“Ay, ay! feeding the fowls!” said the same 
grating voice. “That takes a quarter of an hour to 
folk who want to idle, and five minutes to the hard work- 
ing ! But you are a good girl all the same.” 

Noel did not seem specially impressed either by the 
scolding voice or the commendations but humming to 
herself one of the mournful, minor airs, which, if they 
are really handed down from the troubadours, could not 
have had a very cheering effect on those gentlemen’s 
lives, she swept the kitchen trimly with a broom of long, 
fine rush, and with a handful of bouse and pine slips 
quickly kindled the marmite, and set on the pot to boil, 
— a squat, but antique double-handled pot, which would 
have driven a pottery collector crazy till he had bar- 
gained for it and obtained. She had just done this, when 
the stair-door was pushed open, and an old woman, the 


JiV THE CAMARGUE, 


7 


owner of the grating voice, came in. Like all southern 
women of any age, she looked much older than she was; 
and her brown, decided, hook-nosed face might have been 
dried under the salt marsh suns for a century, for any 
evidence to the contrary, except that when she smiled — 
and it was a kindly, pleasant smile — her white, strong 
teeth were to be seen all sound. Paquette Privas was 
dressed in a full petticoat of olive-green stuff or cloth, 
with a deep orange handkerchief crossed in front and 
tied in a knot behind. The sleeves of her gown were 
dark brown, and the linen cap on her head had a 
small scarlet handkerchief tied over it. After looking 
in the pot to see in what stage the soup was, the old 
woman reached down her distaff from a corner cupboard 
of open shelves, and, taking a stool, sat down outside the 
door, under the projecting roof-ledge, which sheltered 
her from the sun. Noel spread the table with plates and 
spoons, a yard or so of bread cut in portions, and a great 
wooden bowl of salad, dressed with a good deal of oil. 
Then she went to the doorway, and said, Grandmother, 
shall I go out and call father now ? 

‘•Where is he, child? ’’ 

“In the pine wood, gran, talking to Rambert.’’ 

“Has Rambert brought his cattle to this teradou?^^ * 
asked the old Avoman, looking sharply at the girl, whose 
eyes were fixed upon the sand level, and did not observe her. 

“Yes, gran; I saw them going across this morning 
at sunrise, with Oriflamme at their head, and then I saw 
father go out with Roi and Rene to the wood.” 

* Teradou^ the run where the cattle are pasturing. 


8 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


“Ay, ay! If the dogs were there, I’ll warrant you 
could see fast enough. When I want you to spin a hank, 
then your eyes won’t serve you, they ache so ! ” 

“Gran,” exclaimed the girl, laying one brown little 
hand on the old woman’s shoulder, and smiling down 
at her, “the flax thread is fine and weak, and when it 
goes round and round it makes me giddy with watching 
it. Still, I love the distaff, for certainly the holy Marys 
all used it, and spun with it the winding-sheet of the 
Blessed Christ. But any eyes, even the blindest, could 
see Roi and Rene, jumping and barking round my father. 
But you do like to scold me, don’t you, gran? ” 

“ I like you to grow up handy and industrious, as a 
woman ought to be. Your mother was a good wife, 
Noel. She was not strong, nor country-like, but she 
was never idle. Weaving, spinning, knitting, and patch- 
ing, — her little hands could do them all ; and she sat 
there so silent, and yet so bright, that I never wondered 
your father did not marry again after she left him and 
went home. The salt-gatherers used to come round him, 
and talk to him about this woman and that, but he said 
his old mother could fill the pot, and kindle the mar- 
mite, and bring up the child. And, also, once he told 
me that, as Perlette could not bring you up herself, as 
she was gone to the Kingdom of God, he should like you 
to be brought up by the hand that fashioned her, and 
not by a strange woman who never saw her ways. And 
now, go you, child, and call your father, but only tell 
him the soup is ready, and don’t stay to chatter nor 
meddle with men’s business.” 


m THE CAMAEGUE, 


9 


The girl signed acquiescence with a graceful southern 
gesture, and sped across the broad white tract of sand 
that separated the farm from the massive pines. Like 
‘‘fleet Camilla,” Noel scarcely crushed the myriads of 
asters and stalks of sea-lavender that studded the sands, 
and which were too familiar to attract her eye ; but as she 
drew near the gnarled and twisted old pines, many a 
lovely wood-blossom excited her desire to stay and gather 
a wreath for the Madonna’s image in the old kitchen 
which had now only yellow asters round its feet. But 
Noel remembered her grandmother’s injunction, and she 
resolutely threaded her way through the grove, raising 
her voice to the peculiar, mournful “ Oh, la ! ” used by 
the inhabitants of the district in calling to one another 
from the saltpans or canals. 

A responsive call, not far off, answered her, and soon 
afterwards a violent rushing sound was heard, and two 
great cattle dogs — one white, with black points, the 
other tawny yellow— came bounding round her, barking 
in short, sharp, falsetto notes, and making every demon- 
stration of joy. 

“Dear dogs!” said Noel, trying to distribute her 
caresses equally between the eager creatures as they 
careered round her, now touching her shoulders, and 
then gently just reaching her face. “Roi, where is 
father? Down, dear Rene, there’s a good dog! Hi! 
where is he ? ” 

They cantered forward, looking back, to show her the 
way, till she came within sight of two men sitting on a 
huge, fallen pine trunk, and talking so eagerly that they 
did not see her till she was standing almost in front of 


10 


m THE CAM ARGUE. 


them. Both the men then started, and one of them 
flushed red through his deeply-bronzed skin. 

‘‘Father, the soup is boiling over, and will be quite 
spoilt. Gran will be put out if you do not come.’’ 

“Ay, that she will, my girl,” answered the elder of 
the two men. “ Grandams are worse than sweethearts 
or wives to hurry or drive. Stay a moment, Noel, and 
I will come with you.” 

“ Gran forbade me to stay, dear/ather. Shall I take 
your wallet? ” 

“ Ay, do so ! But come and speak to Rambert, Noel. 
Neighborly words become neighbors, and Rambert will 
be our neighbor for one while, at least till the creatures 
have eaten up all the pasture on the run.” 

“Good-day, Rambert,” said the girl, carelessly. “I 
hope your bulls will keep out of my way, for they 
frighten me so, I dare not come to the wood.” 

“ They shall never frighten you where I am, Noel,” 
replied the huge bronzed cattle-guard eagerly, his 
rugged face lighting into a kind of rough beauty as he 
spoke. “You must get used to my herd, Noel, and 
they will follow you like your dogs. Look at Oriflamme 
now ; he is as wise and docile as an elephant, and full as 
loving as Roi or Rene.” 

“Oh, I am not afraid of Oriflamme,” said Noel, 
going close up to the gigantic bull with a bell round his 
neck, who was grazing close behind his master; “but 
then he is your donddire^^ and of course he is to be 

* The leader of the herd or manade is called dondaire, and an- 
swers the purpose both of a sheep-dog and a komkee^ or trained ele- 
phant, to his herdsman. 


J.V THE CAMARGUE. 


11 


trusted.’’ The huge creature turned his splendid eyes 
upon the girl, as if to acknowledge her good opinion, 
and, while she gently pulled and smoothed his tufted 
forelock and crest, bent his head and its terrible out- 
curved horns towards her as if delighting in her 
touch. 

^^See how he knows you already! ” exclaimed Ram- 
bert, with delight, looking at the pretty picture of brute 
force subdued by the slender maiden’s hg,nd. ‘‘You 
could tame Les Rochers himself, I know. Will you 
come and try some day? ” 

“If gran will let me, and father will bring me,” re- 
plied Noel. “ I should like to see Les Rochers; I have 
heard that no one could ever conquer him or brand him 
with any mark but you.” 

“That is true, Noel; but he is branded now. Come 
and see for yourself.” 

“Oh, but what will gran say!” cried Noel, with 
sudden remembrance, and, catching up her father’s wal- 
let, she made the hastiest, pretty little gesture of fare- 
well to the herdsman, whose eyes were still riveted upon 
her, and, calling the dogs, set off at a swift pace towards 
the farm. 

“I must go too; it is later than I thought,” said 
Privas, collecting his tools into a heap, and throwing 
over them a sack. “Well, good-day, Rambert; keep 
up your heart, and remember that the child is young 
and tender yet, and must have her own time to settle her 
mind to marriage. I am your fast friend, as you know, 
and this matter of your uncle’s legacy at Aigues Mortes 


12 


IN THE CAMARGUE, 


sets all things straight in a house-keeping point of view. 
Good-day.” 

And Nicole Privas strode away at such a pace, that he 
overtook his daughter before she had got to the middle of 
the sand plain. 

^‘What were you and Rambert talking so earnestly 
about?” she asked, as soon as they were side by side. 

He pinched her brown cheek kindly and laughed. 

Why ? What did you hear us say ? ” 

‘‘I did not hear anything except something about 
houses and gardens at Aigues Mortes, and you said it 
would do very well, and you were glad. Father, you 
are not going away from here to live in that dreadful, 
desolate old town!” and as Noel spoke she clutched 
him by the arm, and looked into his face as if to read 
his inmost heart. 

Nicole laughed. ‘^Live at Aigues Mortes! Why, 
child, the very words are impossible ! One could only 
die behind those old turreted walls ! ” 

That is what I feel, father. Oh, I am glad to hear 
you say that ! A dreadful fear flashed through me that 
you meant to make some change ; and last week you said 
to me, ^ Child, you can’t expect to live here always, on 
the edge of the Valcaires.’ * Why should I not always 
live in my own home, father? ” 

“ Child, child ! you run away with such notions. I 
never meant to go and live anywhere else. But girls do 
grow up and marry, you know, and then they go and 
make other homes for themselves.” 

* The great salt lake in the Camargue. 


m THE CAMARGUE, 


13 


shall never marry ! ’’ said Noel, withdrawing her 
arm from her father’s, and walking on with a proud, 
light step. 

Pecaire! What is in the wind now? Not a nun- 
nery, I hope?” 

‘‘No, I shall never be a nun; I am not good enough,” 
said Noel, as decisively as before. 

“Well, well! you are good enough for me,” said 
Nicole, with an instinctive feeling that there was always 
something folded up in the depths of Noel’s eyes that he 
did not understand. “And now we will go in and see 
gran, and eat our bread and soup.” 


14 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


CHAPTER 11. 

NOEL, AND WHAT SHE SHALL DO. 

The whole region of the Rhone deltas is so wild and 
singular, and so unlike everything we have been ac- 
customed to associate with Provence, Languedoc, and 
the^ land of the troubadours and their songs, that it 
will be kinder to photograph it for the reader’s benefit 
before carrying him forward further into the story of 
the lives just opened before him. The island of the 
IKarmargue, * formed by the main body of the Rhone, 
the Petit Rhone, and the Mediterranean, and contain- 
ing the huge salt lake of the Valcaires, besides smaller 
waters, is chiefly famous for the village (now) of Les 
Saintes Maries, the traditional resting-place of St. 
Mary Salome, St. Mary the mother of St. James, and 
St. Mary Magdalene, who are traditionally said first to 
have evangelized the Camargue. The relics of the 
three Marys are still venerated there by a crowd of 
pilgrims every twenty-fifth of May. The island 
stretches without an interruption from Arles to the 
coast, and is chiefly composed of mud banks, gravel 
beds, sand levels, and vast salt or brackish marshes, 
where, at certain times of the year, the most pestilen- 


♦ From kamax, reed, and agros, field. 


m THE CAM ARGUE. 


15 


tial vapors and malaria abound. There are, however, 
artificially watered portions of the Camargue, where 
cultivation produces a variety of rich crops. The salt 
waters are kept out by dykes, as in Holland ; the thick 
mud brought down by the Rhone is spread on the land ; 
and the richness of the grass, corn, and green crops 
contrasts in the most singular manner with the general 
barrenness of the land. 

On the barren wastes, which nearly swallow up the 
land portions of the island, salt is the sole melancholy 
production. The ground, to a considerable depth, is 
full of it. In summer what looks like a thick hoar- 
frost of salt eflilorescence lies on the surface, and when 
the pools dry up, a cake of salt, several inches thick, 
coats the space. Vast flocks of pelicans, Egyptian ibis, 
and flamingoes haunt these brackish, reedy “broads,^’ 
adding to the African aspect of the landscape, which 
is completed by the continual summer mirage, when 
the salt and sandy plains take the semblance of one vast 
lake. Herds of cattle, bulls, oxen, and fierce wild cows, 
droves of sheep, and small horses of Arab blood, cover 
the wastes wherever irrigation has produced pasture, and 
the guarding, weaning, training, and branding of these 
herds ofier some of the most remarkable features of this 
extraordinary country. The cattle-guards, or gardians^ 
having once broken in their fiery, active, clean-muscled 
little horses called aigues^ become as completely a part 
of them as the Mexican Spaniards or Indians of the 
Pampas. Without saddle or stirrups they will gallop 
round or among the fierce unruly bulls, spear them with 


16 


JJV THE CAMATIGUE. 


the trident, or three-pronged fork, brand them with hot 
irons, and even leap their horses over them when danger 
becomes imminent from their horns. When they dis- 
mount and leave their horses free to graze, they come 
again at their whistle like dogs. During the branding 
or ferrade^ and bull races, many of the cattle-guards are 
killed, or so badly wounded that they remain maimed 
or crippled and helpless for life ; yet these fierce, brave 
race of men never flinch from the office, and the ranks 
of cattle-guards fill in like a regiment of soldiers in 
battle. 

There is no doubt that the life of wild, lawless freedom 
in the open air, with its rushing gallops, the sense of 
complete mastery over their horses, and the pride they 
take in the beauty of their fierce, dangerous cattle, has 
an intense charm for the Provencal cattle-guards, which 
counterbalances the sense of continual danger, home- 
lessness, and fatigue. Still, in a general way, the life 
is not considered so ‘‘respectable’’ as that of the salt- 
collectors (^sduniers), whose work is one of the most 
disagreeable, monotonous, depressing, and unhealthy in 
Europe. The saltpans are connected in a sort of chain 
by canals, which hava-to be kept clean and unencum- 
bered of stones and rubbish. The pans themselves 
require a great deal of attention, and when the salt is 
collected and piled, it must be carefully covered from 
the damp and wet. During great part of the year the 
mistral blows incessantly in Provence, sometimes bring- 
ing with it damp vapors, driving mists, and soaking 
rain-storms. This prevailing wind of “ Sunny Prov- 


JiV THE CAMARGUE. 


17 


ence ’Ms so violent that it lifts clouds of sand and stones, 
carrying them in its course with great force, unroofs 
ricks and houses, and has even been known to unseat 
men on horseback, and throw them on the ground. 
Much damage is therefore often caused to the salt in its 
preparation, and while forming in crystals, and very 
much weariness of flesh and spirit is the consequence to 
the poor saltmen engaged. The mistral frequently 
brings with it a dense yellow haze, which, besides its 
darkening, gloomy, and depressing effects, is also very 
unwholesome. Altogether, the salt districts of the 
Camargue do not offer a cheerful aspect. 

Such as it is, however, the inhabitants are deeply 
attached to their wild, African-looking region ; and, 
pallid, emaciated, and fever-stricken as they are, cannot 
bear the idea of removal. Their unhedged, unwalled 
levels, with their occasional reaches of pine forest, are 
beautiful in their sight ; their feasts and gatherings of 
cattle-guards and their families are high festivals to 
them; and, in their wild, unfettered freedom, they 
almost look with pity upon the farmers, or inhabitants 
of the mas^ who are bound to a distinct and recurrent 
system of labor to ensure their crops ; and those who are 
looked upon with the most unfeigned pity, above all, 
are the professional men, the doctor, the lawyer, the 
maire, and the substantial tradesmen — as we should 
say, ‘Mhimney-pots : ” chapeaux noirs — of the one 
town of the district, Aigues Mortes. If beyond the 
lowest depth a deeper still was to be sounded by the 
plummet of Oamargascan opinion, it lay behind the 


18 


m THE CA3f ARGUE > 


glorious, crenellated, arcaded battlements of that mar- 
vellous old town. 

But it is time to return to Cabridelle, the old farm in 
which the Privas family, from father to son, had dwelt 
for generations, and which, while carefully handed 
down as a precious heirloom, had gradually moulded and 
crumbled away till portions of it threatened to fly before 
every fresh mistral wind. The utmost amount of labor 
and exertion never achieved more than the collecting of 
the thick, fat mud brought down by the Rhone; the 
storing and working it with a certain amount of chalk 
or lime, and the varech or seaweed thrown up on the 
shore ; and keeping the dykes in order, that the salt 
water might obey, the direction of the incomparable 
critic, — 

‘‘ Ever while you live, Thames, keep between your banks.” 

Finally the mud was spread upon the spaces thus 
severed and secured from the salt flood. After that — 
which was clearly a process requiring a considerable 
outlay of labor, if not of money — there were the crops 
to sow, to weed, and to house ; and scarcely was this toil 
over before the collection of the next year’s mud com- 
post must begin again. Breathing time for building 
repairs there was none, and all that Privas could possi- 
bly manage was to replace the stone flags that were 
blown ofl* the roof, and to keep the old house weaiher- 
tight from the driving winds and rain. Still, in a 
rough, careless fashion, there was plenty of wealth at 
Cabridelle; and corn, wine, silk, oil, honey and flax 


JiV THE CAMARGUE, 


19 


were more abundantly stored in the old hicocq than in 
many a lordly chateau on the Upper Rhone. 

Privas and his two women-kind fully enjoyed the 
meal this morning, for they had all been long afoot; 
and while Noel was satisfying the dogs, who had 
posted themselves on each side of her, licking their 
chops, and every now and then spasmodically getting 
up, and sitting down again on their haunches, with a 
short whine of appeal, Privas said to his mother, You 
can let Noel go to her bees, and wash up the things 
yourself. I have a word or two to say.’^ 

“ Of course, Nicole ! Child, run away to the garden, 
and see what the bees want, and the silk- worms ; your 
father and I have business. And, Noel,’’ she called 
after her, as the girl, nothing loath, was going out with 
the dogs, ‘‘when you have satisfied the bees, take up 
the stockings, that your father may have that new pair 
on Sunday.” 

Noel made here usual graceful acquiescing sign, and 
vanished with Roi and Rene, shutting the heavy door 
after her. 

“ She’s a good girl, Noel, mother, and what I have to 
say is about her.” 

“ She is well enough, as young girls go,” replied the 
old woman; “ but it never does to praise girls any more 
than it would do to feed them on nougat cake instead 
of bread. Are you thinking of marrying her, Nicole ? 
She is young yet, — only a child.” 

“Noel is over sixteen, mother, and in Provence six- 
teen is not childhood. Rambert has made a proposal 


20 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


for her to-day. He has been casting sheep’s-eyes on 
her wherever he has seen her, ever since he was last on 
this meadow.’’ 

“Rambert the cattle-guard!” exclaimed the old 
woman, with scant signs of pleasure. 

“Rambert the cattle-guard; and what does that 
look and uplifted hand mean, mother ? ’ ’ 

“Why, Nicole, he is like — like the old god Her- 
cules himself, I should think, when, as the nuns used 
to teach us, all the stones were rained down on the 
Crau.” * 

“ Well, Hercules was a great man in his day, if all 
tales are true,” replied Nicole, with relish of the allu- 
sion. “Now I come to think of it, Rambert is rather 
like Hercules, for there is nothing he sets himself to 
do that he can’t do, and he gets the better of all his 

enemies, which, if I recollect, Hercules also did. 

Many a good old Provencal song there is about that 
Greek and his labors, and the fights with the giants on 
the Crau. But now, mother, business, if you please ! ” 

“ But, Nicole, a cattle-guard ! Why, I would sooner 
Noel married the saunier Mezas, at Sambuc, than that. 
M^zas at least has his saltpans and tanks, and land, 
and a house to live in. Rambert is a wanderer — a 

rough, brown giant of a fellow, with only some old 

hicocq of stables for himself and his aigues^ the aigues 

* The Crau is a desert of some forty thousand acres of round 
stones, deposited by the Khone and Durance at some primeval pe- 
riod below Arles. It is said to have been the scene of the fight of 
Hercules and the Ligurians. 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


21 


being perhaps better cared for than himself. I would 
rather think of Mezas.” 

“ So would not I,” replied Nicole, with decision, but 
without showing the least sharpness at his mother’s re- 
sistance, for he was too good a Proven§al, or, we may 
rather say, too good a Frenchman, not to reverence his 
mother’s authority, and treat her with the utmost for- 
bearance. ‘‘So would not I; and look you, mother, 
Kambert will be another man when he takes himself a 
wife, and has a home of his own, especially when that 
wife is a young lady like our girl. Rambert is like all 
other cattle-guards, weather-brown and uncombed, and 
rough in his speech and ways; but he will fine down 
when Noel takes him in hand, whom he loves like the 
apples of both his eyes. Even when he saw her this 
morning, his face had a new look which I never saw in 
it before. And he is a fine, handsome fellow when he 
is clean, and combed, and dressed.” 

“ And is she to live in the stables then?” said Pa- 
quette, the look of supreme disdain still fixed in her 
brown old face. “ Pecaire ! Nicole, there is a little 
too much sand in thine eyes just now ! ” 

“Mother, there is not a grain. To think how you 
women judge of men by their blouses ! I dare say you 
would like Noel to marry a ‘ chimney-pot ’ and go live 
at Aigues Mortes ; or maybe you would choose a spruce, 
stork-legged Nimois (citizen of Nimes) for your grand- 
son-in-law ? To think of that yellow-faced skeleton, 
Mezas, who has the ague fever every August, marrying 
our pretty Noel ! She would be a widow before she 


22 


nr THE CAM ARGUE. 


was well a wife, mother. Come, where else is the sand, 
I wonder ! 

‘‘ But if she were a widow, she would be well left,” 
replied the thrifty old woman. Mezas has money in 
the Nimes bank, and they even say he has shares in the 
Craponne.^ Madame Mezas could wear all silk weeds 
if she chose.” 

That is a woman’s lookout for a bridal! ’’‘ex- 
claimed Nicole, laughing heartily. ‘‘No, no, mother; 
poor little Noel must have a brighter prospect than of 
wearing her weeds, silk or not. You will find that 
Rambert is a good husband for her. His uncle, old La 
Bouce, is dead at Aigues Mortes, and has left him quite 
a little fortune in houses there. If Rambert chose, he 
could give up his cattle trade, and go and live at Aigues 
Mortes as fine as the best chimney-pot among them all. 
But he is right not to try it. He says he will never 
leave the levels, and pines, and free, fresh air for a city 
life, nor will he take Noel away from the Camargue, 
and from being able to see us. He will get a nice little 
house built at the stables, sheltered by the pines, and 
there she can bring up her children, and look after her 
garden and fowls as a woman should. And you can go 
and help her through it all, mother, and teach her the 
best ways of keeping house.” 

“Ay, ay ! I’ll warrant I know all that,” replied 
Paquette, complacently. “ The daughter and the grand- 
daughter, and then the great-grandchildren, must walk 

* A great canal, so named from the family of Crape nne, who 
began it. 


m THE CAMARGUE, 2Q 

the same road. Well, I suppose it is God^s will. Have 
you spoken to Noel, my son?’’ 

No, no, not yet. Time enough ! Only do you get 
forward with her linen and clothes, and Rambert must 
come to supper. And after that I will say my word to 
the child, that she may treat him henceforward in a 
proper, modest, submissive way.” 

The old woman looked at him for a moment, as he 
was thus reckoning on his child as a piece of wax to be 
run into a mould. She knew that men of their country 
were from time immemorial used to dispose of their 
daughters in marriage according to some settled plan ; 
but she also knew that Provencal women were not al- 
ways of such wax-like ductility as to bear it, and that 
terrible tragedies had come about within her own mem- 
ory, and that of her son’s, too. After a pause of re- 
flection, she said, with more solemnity than usual, I 
would speak to Noel before thou goest further, Nicole, 
if I were thee.” 

‘‘What do you mean by that, mother?” he asked, 
looking up sharply from the boxwood bowl he was 
carving, and with the sub-irritation which men show 
when everything is not smoothly acquiescent with their 
will. “ Why should I speak to Noel? Is there any 
man in her head, or have you put into it any of your 
notions about Rambert and cattle-guards not being fit 
for her?” 

“May the blessed Marys open your eyes, my son! 
I have never even thought of speaking to the child 
about anything like a man. It is not the way with our 


24 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


people, nor ever, I hope, will be. Noel is yet a baby 
in mind and heart, — as innocent as the kids or chickens 
she feeds ; but for all that, she is not like other girls, 
and I know she has many thoughts in her mind. She 
is not like her mother in that, for she broods and thinks ; 
and often I have wished she did not think so much ; 
and there is a look in her eyes that might have come 
from the Saracen princess whom the old Count Privas 
of former days is said to have carried away and shut up 
in Aigues Mortes. I would not cross Noel too far, 
myself.’’ 

Well-a-well ! there’s never any knowing what new- 
fangled fowl women will hatch off common hens’ eggs ! ” 
said Privas, who had suspended his knife, and sat with 
the bowl motionless in his thin, brown hands, while she 
was speaking. Foi de Dieu ! don’t I know my own 
child? and can’t I make her do what I choose to, or 
know why ? But there ! you women are like the sea- 
wind itself. Without a moment’s notice, and while you 
are quietly fishing in the sunshine, there comes the 
white squall, and every one is drowned ! I’m a fool to 
listen or to be upset by it, and don’t you mind me 
either, mother. Do you just make Rambert welcome, 
and I’ll see about Noel.” 

‘‘I’ll do my part, Nicole, and, when he is likely to 
come to supper, see if I don’t treat him well. He shall 
eat food cooked as he has never tasted it in his life 
before.” 

“That’s right, mother. Now I’ll leave you to your 
distaff, and go look after the mulberry leaves.” 


IK THE CAMARGUE. 


25 


CHAPTER III. 

RAMBERT, THE CATTLE-GUARD. 

Whether it was from some latent instinct which 
Paquette’s words had awakened, or from some observa- 
tion subsequent to them of his own, Privas did not im- 
mediately take any opportunity of speaking to Noel 
about her marriage, or seek to bring Rambert to the 
farm. He only kept his child a good deal with him, 
contrary to the usual custom of leaving the women to- 
gether, occupied in household matters. At one time he 
would bid her come and collect the picked mulberry 
leaves, in large, light reed baskets, from the sheets of 
cotton cloth spread for them under the trees ; and, again, 
he would bid her take the dogs, and drive out the kids 
to nibble the pasture hidden under the stones, or go to 
the pine wood to collect the dry cones which are so inval- 
uable for kindling. In this way he kept her much with 
him, and thus saw more of her than he had ever done 
before. And, although he was not a far-seeing or a 
deep-seeing man, nor possessed the life-wisdom which his 
mother had stored up from much thought and many sor- 
rows, still, he awoke to the knowledge that Noel, under 
her child self, the childhood of age, innocence, and utter 
removal from evil, hid a ripe woman’s force of character, 


26 


m THE CAMAROUE. 


and a fiery strength of passion which it would not be 
well to rouse to opposition or urge beyond her control. 

He therefore bided his time, and waited for some 
natural opportunity of letting Rambert show himself at 
his best. This opportunity would occur at an approach- 
ing festival, a mueslade* or general muzzling of the 
vedels or calves in split reeds, which was the weaning 
time of the herd. The muselade was not, in itself, 
particularly cheerful or festive, but the population of 
that dreary, townless region make the best of things, and 
turn every occasion of meeting together to advantage. 
When the time draws near for a muselade^ the cattle- 
guards look carefully to their horses and their own 
appearance, that they may show well in the eyes of the 
young women who flock to witness the ceremony ; and 
the girls, on their part, are not behindhand in getting 
themselves up with ribbons, bordered aprons, and colored 
shawls, which may, in some degree, set off their pale, 
colorless cheeks, and sharp features. Little two-wheeled 
carts, called taps^ are harnessed, each with a fiery little 
horse, and scurry lightly over the levels, driven by the 
women themselves. Larger carts carry whole families, 
dressed in their best, well furnished with maize, bread, 
salads, and preparations for houllabaise^ comprising, I 
am sorry to say, much garlic and oil. Men ride the 
little, restive, half-broken horses, with long spurs; and 
there is as much life and movement towards the scene of 
action as if it were the Derby-day. 

There was going to be a muselade now, and Rambert’s 
vedels would form a conspicuous feature among the calves 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


27 


whose noses were to be garnished with the split-reed 
muzzle. Noel was excited at the prospect of going, for 
the first time since her childhood, to this festival, and as 
the scene of action was some miles off, there was the 
prospect of quite an expedition, and a whole day’s 
pleasure. Her delight was much increased when, on 
the morning of the day, a smart, new, fawn-colored 
little cart, with scarlet wheels, was driven into the yard, 
drawn by a beautiful little blue-roan horse with a white 
mane and tail, decorated with long ear-tassels of raw 
silk, dyed of the brightest red. Noel, who was feeding 
the fowls, was the first to see the cart, and rushing into 
the kitchen, she exclaimed : — 

“0 gran, there’s a new cart come! Are we to go 
in it to St. Cecile?” 

“Ask your father, child; I don’t know what he has 
planned.” 

“0 father!” (Privas came in at that moment) 
“ have you seen the new cart, and the gray pony? Are 
we going in it, father ? Who is going in it? ” 

“You and I are going in it.” 

“And how is gran going, then? She is going, isn’t 
she, father? ” 

“ She is going in the big farm covered cart, child, 
with J eanne Mezas and Marriette Roux. This cart is 
lent to me to drive you in to-day.” 

“Lent, father?” asked Noel, astonished, and looking 
up from laying the table as expeditiously as she could. 
“ I did not know there were any new people come to the 
levels.” 


28 


7iV TBE CAMARGUE. 


“Not very new. It is Rambert’s cart, and his best 
young pony.” 

Rambert’s cart? ” Again Noel looked up surprised. 
‘‘Why, I never knew that cattle-guards were dandies 
enough to drive themselves about in carts with red 
wheels.” 

“Well, anyhow are going to drive in it,” said 
Privas, concealing a slight sense of being disconcerted. 
“And I think Rambert is very kind to give us the 
first turn in it. You must be sure and thank him too 
Noel.” 

“Yes, if we see him,” she replied; “ but I dare say 
he will be too busy with his vedds to think about us- 
Now, father, will you come to breakfast ; and then we 
can go, can’t we, all the sooner? ” 

Privas was well pleased to see his daughter’s eager- 
ness, and they sat down to the usual meal of soup, 
bread, and salad, with the unusual addition of new 
cheese and a bottle of wine. When the food had been 
despatched, Pacjuette bade Noel leave the clearing away 
to her, as the farm cart was not to start till later, and 
get herself ready to go with her father, who was now 
leading the fiery little horse out of the stable door. 
Noel s preparations were soon made. She had on 
already her best gown, of fine striped red and white 
cotton, the white ground exceedingly white, and the 
close, small stripes of the deepest ingrained red. Over 
this was a long muslin, frilled apron, with pockets and 
red ribbons, and a little rich yellow-green shawl was 
folded closely across and pinned behind. Just in the 


JiV THE CAMARGUE. 


29 


opening made by crossing the shawl or handkerchief 
hung a large filagree silver cross, tied round her slender 
brown neck l3y a narrow black velvet. Her long, fine, 
dusky hair was plaited as usual into a coronet, and 
through the back of it was run two great filagree- 
headed silver pins. On this occasion Noel wore white 
stockings, and her little feet were shod with un tanned 
leather shoes. 

Privas looked at this figure with pardonable pride as 
she took her seat beside him in the cart, and as she 
signed many farewells to ^^gran’’ and enjoined her 
many times to make haste and come after them, he gave 
the fiery little horse the rein, and they flew forward like 
a shuttlecock driven by a smart blow. 

The sun had not, even yet, long risen, and the level 
golden rays were slanting across the sand, glittering on 
the asters and marigolds, and turning the shining par- 
ticles to jewels on their path. The tall reeds rustled 
and waved as they flew along the edge of the lake, and 
flamingoes glanced like live flames through the rushy 
coverts. ' The wild ducks were leading their young in 
broad squadrons across the water, and every bird, and 
rush and flower seemed to be rejoicing in the new day. 
Noel looked away as far her eye could reach to the east- 
ward, and saw, far beyond the sands and stones and 
marshes of the Camargue, the sunlit, misty forms of the 
Dauphine Alps, appearing and disappearing like solemn 
angels in the morning haze. There was something partly 
solemn and partly joyful in her feelings at the spectacle, 
which made her think of the Magnificat,’’ as she had 


30 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


heard it at the Vespers at Les Stes. Maries, when the 
pealing organ and the many voices had seemed to open 
Heaven’s gates and allow her a dim glimpse of the king- 
dom within. Noel had not much experience of religious 
pleasures, and the Sunday mass at St. Bertrand was 
generally the limit of her opportunities of public worship ; 
but she had a mind which, while not given to that form 
of pious sentiment usually shared by women, was deeply 
religious, and open to the discernment of the loftier and 
nobler side both of external things and the feelings and 
emotions which most stir us. The springing grass, the 
waving reeds, the breath of the pines in spring, the joyful 
flight of the young pelicans and wildfowl, the bounding 
rush of the droves of horses and bullocks across the levels, 
and, as now, the rarer sight of the far-ofi*, solemn moun- 
tain peaks clad in shimmering mist, brought to Noel’s 
mind the sense of deep emotions and lofty aspirations 
stirring within her, which her daily life seemed to check 
and conflne, and which its narrow claims seemed never 
able to All. At such moments of exulting joy in the 
stirring, as of a spirit brooding on a formless and unfin- 
ished world, she felt that there was no life of confessor- 
ship she could not have carried out, no martyr’s death she 
could not have borne, no long labor of self-sacrifice and 
devotion which her powers could not fulfil. Then some 
shining vision of such a life would rise before her, in 
which herself, with all her petty faults and worries and 
trivial daily tasks, would be merged and lost, under the 
claims of a lofty, urgent need or companionship, tasking 
her present strength and capacities to the utmost, while 


J2V THE CAMARGUE. 


31 


raising her to ever fresh knowledge and glimpses into 
other worlds of being. If she might only learn more 
and more every day, instead of winding cocoons, and 
feeding fowls, and knitting stockings, and filling her 
grandmother’s distaff with flax or wool ! If she could 
only have a teacher, there would be some hope, though 
this was by far the dimmest and mistiest portion of 
Noel’s vision. Meanwhile, the fresh, clear morning air 
raised her spirits, while it fanned her cheeks, and the 
sight of friends and acquaintances, or quite new people 
scurrying along in their little carts, drew a veil again 
over the loftier glimpses which had brought into her 
eyes that pathetic, far-off look which made them so beau- 
tiful, and Noel gave herself up to the enjoyment of the 
hour. 

There is Rambert’s Oriflamme ! ” suddenly exclaimed 
Privas, slackening the pony’s fiery course. ‘‘Those 
yonder must be his cattle, feeding at the edge of that 
little pine wood.” 

“ I wonder why the bell-ox is roving so far off?” re- 
plied Noel. “ What eyes he has, father ; and do look at 
his chest and shoulders ! ” 

“Yes, he is the finest bell-ox on the run,” said Pri- 
vas, still looking earnestly towards the pine wood. “ I 
think I see Rambert on his aigue, galloping out there 
almost as far as my eyes can reach. Something must be 
the matter.” 

“ Yes ; look how Oriflamme goes questing, like a dog, 
in and out of the reeds and canes,” said Noel. “Per- 
haps they have lost some calves.” 


82 


IN THE CAMARGVB, 


The mystery was solved sooner than they had ex- 
pected, or than was agreeable, by a sudden, loud, fierce 
bellowing, as Oriflamme, who was making his way in 
and out among a vast brake of tufted reeds, like a snort- 
ing railway engine out for a holiday, thrust his huge 
head into a fresh corner of the brake, and discovered the 
object of his search. The enormous missing bull, Les 
Rochers, disturbed in his new liberty and enjoyment of 
a tuft of fresh-leaved, aromatic shrubs, at the same time 
thrust his great head and long shining horns in the air, 
and bellowed viciously with all the power of his lungs ; 
and having thus sounded the trumpet for battle, he 
rushed towards the faithful trained ox, and seemed about 
to put an end to his labors at one blow. Oriflamme 
quietly waited for his mad onset, and then, like a cool- 
headed knight at a joust, swerved rapidly to one side, 
and, as the bull passed, wounded him sharply on the left 
flank with one horn. The enraged monster, beside him- 
self with pain, trampled the earth, and threw up the 
canes into the air, screaming and bellowing, in attitudes 
that would have made a sculptor’s fortune as the type of 
‘‘the divine force” uncontrolled. 

Privas rapidly put the reins into Noel’s hands, and 
unslinging a little horn he wore on his shoulder, blew 
with it a long, shrill, mournful cry, which echoed over 
the level to a much greater distance than louder sounds. 
He had retaken the reins, and was about to urge for- 
ward the pony again, still keeping his head turned to- 
wards the far-oflf cattle, when Les Rochers, spying for 
the first time the scarlet tassels tossing in the air as the 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


33 


cart turned round, sprang out of the cane-brake with a 
hideous roar, and dashed exactly towards the cart, with 
his mouth foaming, and his head nearly touching the 
earth. In a few minutes, as Privas was well aware, 
in spite of the helpful by-play of the faithful Oriflamme, 
the pony, his child, and himself would be thrown vio- 
lently in the air, to fall in one crushed and mangled 
heap before the enraged beast. He involuntarily 
touched Noel, saying, ‘‘Be brave, child, and sit quite 
still!’’ which she answered under her breath by — 
“Stes. Maries, dear saints, help us ! ” and Privas gave 
the little horse one lash, loosing the reins at the same 
moment, to allow him to bound forward at full speed. 
The clever little Arab, well used to the levels and the 
continual attacks of the fierce cattle, swerved so swiftly 
and violently aside, that Privas made sure Noel was 
thrown out of the cart ; but the girl had clutched the 
side with a grip like steel, and was sitting pale and 
set beside him, with even a smile on her slightly parted 
lips. But though the bull’s thrust was missed, he was 
now just behind the cart, and was rushing forward for 
the final toss, with his huge, tawny head and broad- 
reaching horns nearly on the ground, swept with the 
long flakes of hair at his chest, and his black tufted tail 
lashing wildly in the air. Just as Privas thought the 
last shock was come, and an unaccustomed prayer rose 
on his lips, a tremendous roar was heard from the bull, 
whom Bambert had attacked on the side with his tri- 
dent, while at the same time he threw a great knotted 
leather thong over his horns, and then, galloping round 


34 IN THE CAMARGUE. 

and round him at the full speed of his powerful gray 
horse, he succeeded in throwing the furious bull to the 
ground, where he lay panting and bleeding, and bellow- 
ing with powerless rage. Oriflamme took up his post 
beside him, exactly as a cattle-dog would have done, 
while Rambert, throwing himself from his horse, ran to 
the cart to grasp Privas by the hand, and make sure 
for himself that Noel was none the worse for her fright. 
In the excitement, the strong expression of his feelings 
escaped him. 

Noel ! Noel ! he panted, for he had not yet had 
a moment to regain breath. Are you hurt, my child? 
Did the beast touch the cart ? Did he touch you, my 
— child?’’ 

“ I am not the least hurt, Rambert. He never quite 
touched us, thanks to the Stes. Maries. But you are 
wounded, yourself! 0 father, look at his arm I ” 

‘‘Ouf! a mere cat’s scratch!” said Rambert, dis- 
dainfully glancing at a sharp graze made by one of the 
bull’s horns at his final fall. ‘‘ Your smallest handker- 
chief would bind up such a wound as that, and scarcely 
tell tales. Will you have a gourd of water, Noel? 
Mine was fresh from the jar just now. You look pale, 
my child. I shall have Les Rochers killed. I shall al- 
ways hate him now ! ” 

Oh, no, no, Rambert I ” cried Noel. Poor, beau- 
tiful beast ! He was angry at something, and then, just 
as Oriflamme wounded him, he spied our red tassels. I 
should like to cure him ; and, 0 father, do let me get 
out I I think he is bleeding very much.” 


jy THE CAMARGUE. 


35 


“Let him bleed, cursed beast!” said Privas, sav- 
agely. “ It will do him good to let some of the wicked- 
ness out of him ! I would gladly kill him myself for 
the fright he put me in for you, child.” 

Noel, however, was not to be gainsaid this time. 
Her father saw, with vexation, that the interest of Ram- 
bert’s wound was quite effaced by the bull’s far more 
serious hurts; and Noel, jumping out of the cart, 
quickly gathered handfuls of rosemary and of another 
aromatic herb, crushed the leaves deftly on a large flat 
stone, and laid them softly on the bull’s wounded side. 
She then begged a little water from Rambert’s gourd, 
with which she soaked her handkerchief, and laid it 
over the herbs, gently pressing it down. The bull had 
apparently returned to his normal state of mind, and 
the girl’s presence and care for his comfort evidently 
produced a soothing effect. His bellowing was reduced 
to low groans ; he licked her hands, and strove in va- 
rious ways to express his good-will, and seemed so com- 
forted by the compress of herbs, that Rambert allowed 
him to get on his legs, and, having fastened him to the 
bell-ox by the bull’s-hide thong, to follow the march 
towards the pine wood, whither the whole party slowly 
proceeded. 

“You ought to have given Rambert your handker- 
chief, child, instead of wasting it on that vicious beast,” 
said Privas, in a hurried voice, on the way. “He has 
saved your life, and your father’s, this day, Noel, and 
you make no more of it than if he had given you a drink 
of water, but must needs bestow all your interest on the 


36 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


savage beast that put us all in jeopardy. You ought 
to thank him from your very heart before we go farther 
on.’’ 

‘‘I will, father ; I will, indeed!” said Noel, hurt 
that she should have been found wanting in gratitude, 
which to her mind was the lowest depth of ill. ‘‘I 
somehow felt as if taking care of Les Rochers was 
thanking him ; but I cannot help being glad that he has 
my handkerchief.” 

^‘Why so? What do you mean, child?” asked 
Privas, sharply. 

‘‘I don’t think I can explain what I mean, father. I 
don’t like men to have my things. But the poor bull 
has no friends ; and, oh, he was so very much hurt ! ” 

Privas said sundry inarticulate words, probably not of 
the most approving nature, but there was no use in be- 
ing angry with Noel ; and he supposed, as he had done 
many times before, that she was too young yet to be like 
other girls. 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


37 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE MUSELADE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 

As soon as the cart halted at the pine wood and 
Privas and his daughter had stepped out of it, Noel 
' walked a little way through the trees to where Rambert 
was giving directions to a rough little boy. When he 
had broken oS and hurried the boy to his task of 
driving the straggling calves up to the centre of the 
herd, she said to the cattle-guard, ‘*1 did not half 
enough thank you, Rambert, for saving our lives. 
Father and I do so thank and bless you, and we shall 
never forget it. I ought to have said it before, but I 
was thinking of the poor, suffering beast.’’ 

‘‘More than of the poor, suffering man,” said Ram- 
bert, his rare smile brightening and softening his 
granite face. 

“ The bull has no soul, Rambert.” 

“He has not. Is that why you care for him more 
than for me ? ” 

“In one sense,” replied the girl, simply and slowly, 
as if puzzling out her own meaning. “Suffering does 
him no good ; it brings him no fruit ; and he will have 
no reward. Besides, he has done no sin, with all his 
fierceness, and he ought not to be punished^ except so 
far as to keep us from harm.” 


38 


JJV THE CAMARGUE, 


That is all true, I believe, but I never thought of 
it before. I’m only a simple, rough man, Noel ; and 
while I am taming the beasts I only think of taming 
them and getting the better of them. I suppose God 
made them for us, and made us to be their masters, and 
intended them to obey.” 

Yes, Rambert; but I think their masters ought not 
to be cruel, because our Lord was merciful to every 
one ; and, if I could have it so, I should like everything 
in the world to be happy.” 

‘‘ You could make every creature in the world happy, 
Noel, and you could make me happier than all* the 
world. Will you do so ? ” 

‘‘Yes, if I can,” replied Noel, still slowly, and look- 
ing away from him with eyes that seemed to take in 
the whole charge of all the universe. 

“Indeed you can. Will you be my wife? Your 
father is willing.” 

“ No, — nOj — NO, — Rambert ! ” Noel broke in, once 
more exclaiming, as she had done before, but now with 
more passionate energy, “ I shall never marry any one ! 
I can’t bear you to talk so ! Let me go to father ! ” 

And Noel flew rather than walked away from him, 
across the rough, unequal ground, nor ever stopped till 
she had put her hand upon her father’s arm, and said, 
passionately, ‘ ‘ Father, take me away from here ! Take 
me home ! Take me now ! ” 

“Home! away! are you mad, child? My poor 
little lamb, has that savage bull so frightened thee? ” 

Noel burst into tears, and for some instants could 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


39 


not answer. Then, in the lowest possible tone, she 
said, sobbing, Not the bull! Take me away from 
Hambert ! 

“ Has he spoken to you about — has he asked you to 
be his wife ? ’’ 

Yes, father, but I never will.’’ 

Highty-tighty, little one ! Why not ? ” 
told you, father, once before, that I never will be 
any man’s wife ! I will not, I will not 1 ” 

“Well-a-well! this is sheer madness. What maggot 
bites you, I know not, child, but some day you will 
sing quite another tune. When I am dead and gone, 
where are you to live, and who is to take care of you 
and give you bread and meat? But come! you are 
just upset now, and we will say nothing more about it. 
How Vexing it all is, just as Bambert has saved us from 
a horrible death, you should turn upon him in this 
way ! His whole heart is wrapped up in you, Noel, and 
he is a fair, just, trusty man.” 

I know he is ; but, but — why did he say that? I 
was just thanking him with all my heart, and — ” 

“Ay, ay! I understand it now. He would have 
been wiser to have waited, but a man can’t always 
make love like a sum on a slate. Come, think no more 
of it, and we’ll not spoil our day’s sport, but just put it 
all by till another while. I’ll go speak to the poor lad, 
and I’ll engage he’ll not trouble you again. Sit you 
down here in the cart till I come back.” 

As Noel crept into her former seat she thought she 
had been very foolish and selfish in wishing to take her 


40 


IN THE CAMABGUE. 


father away from his sport and holiday, and felt very 
much as if she would like to be one of the calves that 
were now coming, bounding like antelopes, across the 
level, or Roi or Rene, who were standing alternately on 
the wheel, thrusting their heads with competitive jeal- 
ousy into her hand. She crumpled herself up in the 
cart, and carefully avoided looking at anything but the 
two dogs and their games. She had often beheld inward 
visions and dreamed dreams ; craving for a changed life, 
for loftier teaching, and for a teacher to convey it. Was 
this the heavier and more wounding cross which Pere 
Maurel had once told her was always given if the com- 
mon life-burden were thrown aside ? Was marriage to 
be her cross? Words had crossed her path here and 
there without her entertaining, till lately, any idea of 
their significance, except that somebody, who would be 
called her husband, would take her away from Cabri- 
delle, and her father, and grandmother, to another house, 
where there would be other spinning and winding of 
cocoons, and feeding of fowls on her own account. 
‘‘ When thou hast a house of thine own^ how wouldst 
thou like to have it in a muddle all day?^^ had been 
one of Paquette’s earliest lessons on the advantage of 
putting away the spoons and dishes promptly and clean, 
and of keeping the flax and raw silk in their proper 
receptacles, instead of leaving them hanging over chair- 
backs, and lying on the dresser. When you have a 
house of your oim^ you will ivant to have the meals 
done and. over at a regular timef had been her father’s 
invariable answer to her childish petitions for gathering 


IJSr THE CAMARGUE. 


41 


wood-flowers and watching the ducks when eating hours 
approached. And many a former groan and sigh, and 
impatient yawn and stretch over the distaff, had been 
quenched by her grandmother’s deep or grating contralto, 
as her mood might be, — Who will spin thee thy hus- 
band’s sheets and linen if thou canst not put thy hand to 
the spindle?” All life, in her elder’s eyes, seemed to 
revolve about this central act of the drama, or climax to 
the epic, — marriage, a husband, a separate life and 
home. And now it had suddenly fallen at her feet. 
Here was the husband offering her the home. The 
marriage was at her door. What had made her instantly 
put up bar and bolt, and declare that it could never be ? 
Why was her whole nature alight and alive with that 
one energetic No ” ? 

And Rambert ? 

Noel looked through her shading fingers, between 
which tears were also slowly trickling, and saw the 
cattle-guard riding away, with a sad and dejected air, 
that contrasted strongly with the bright, living presence 
that had exchanged those words with her only a few 
minutes since. Were theyxeally minutes? It was as 
if years had passed over her head. The mighty frame of 
the gardian looked bent and worn, and all over stricken 
with weakness. He got on his gray horse, Bayard, 
with an efibrt, and, after looking across the sands with 
a weary, doubtful glance, he gathered himself up and 
went on with the work in hand. Whether he were sad, 
or whether he were glad, the herd of vedels must be 
muzzled all the same, so he put spurs to Bayard and 


42 


IN THE CAMAEGUE. 


galloped away; while Privas came slowly back to the 
cart, got into it without a word, took the reins from 
NoePs hand, and drove off quickly to the place of 
meeting, followed by the dogs. Privas maintained a 
dogged silence all the time, looking sulkily at the 
pony’s ears; and Noel was too unhappy and sorrowful 
to attempt a word of remark. 

When they got to the meeting-place, — where a sort 
of barrier had been built of carts, hay trucks, and 
stakes, with the heavier furniture from the farms, 
called in general the cabaous, behind which the older 
'and more sedentary portion of the spectators . were 
camped, — Privas said shortly, without looking at his 
daughter, Do not say anything about Rambert to your 
grandmother. I’ll tell her by-and-by myself, ” and 
bidding Noel, rather roughly, make haste and get into 
the covered cart in which Paquette and some elder 
women were sitting, he took the pony away to unharness 
and give it some fodder, where the rest of the horses 
were picketed in a group. 

Noel was glad to sit down between her grandmother 
and old Jeanne Mezas, and to be told to lift up her 
gown thriftily, and sit on her petticoat, and to be careful 
not to touch the wheels, which had been newly greased. 
She was glad when Jeanne kindly stroked her long 
hair-plaits, and said, Bless thee, my child ! Thou art 
grown a tall young lady, and must be useful now to thy 
gran.” It made her feel again like a child that is pro- 
tected by its childish years, and as if she had got back 
into her eggshell instead of having hatched out into 


IK XRE CAM ARGUE. 


43 


some strange form, and state of being which she knew 
not, and whose conditions of life she could never fulfil. 
She resolved to stay in her eggshell as long as she could, 
and take all the good of it ; and thus rousing herself, 
she became gradually aware of all that was going on. 
She was helped in this by Paquette’s entire absorption 
in the festivity, and her eager reminiscences as one and 
another passing object called up circumstances or per- 
sons of a former day, which entirely prevented the 
keen-eyed old woman from observing the change in 
Noel’s face since she had left her at daybreak. 

‘‘Look, look, Jeanne! there are two fresh herds of 
vedels. That large one comes from St. Bertrand. I 
know the gardian, Arcoux. His grandfather and my 
father, Desire Taras, were like two brothers, and they 
always kept their cattle on the same run. Old Arcoux 
was a great man at the ferrade. He would just take 
the strongest bull by the horns, and throw him on the 
sand, as you would toss a child down to be whipped.” 

“ Ay, ay I men were stronger and braver in our day, 
Paquette. There were no railways then, and women did 
not drink tea, which they tell me they do every day at 
Aigues Mortes. It stands to reason that women who live 
on foreign tisane must have weakly children. Don’t 
tell me ! ” 

“ You are right there, Jeanne. I’m glad no tea was 
ever seen at Cabridelle, except rosemary tisane, when 
Noel’s mother used to get her faintings. Dear heart I 
it always refreshed her very much. There ! here comes 
a fresh drove. Dame 1 what a sweet lot of cows ! Look 


44 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


how they trot, and their backs are as flat as my kitchen- 
table. Whose are they, I wonder? ’’ 

There’s a bull for you ! ’’ responded Jeanne, point- 
ing to Les Rochers, who had now been freed, and was 
slowly moving along in sullen majesty a little apart from 
the herd. 

‘^And there’s a dondaire! Ah, here comes the 
gardian. It is Rambert. I know him a little ; he’s a 
rough man, but a good and trustworthy. He has come 
to the run between us and St. Cecile, and is going to 
build himself a house, they say, and enlarge his stables.” 

Ah, ha ! and perhaps to settle down? ” said Jeanne, 
with the inevitable woman’s logic of experience. 

“May be so,” returned Paquette, briefly, for she was 
a prudent old woman, and knew when to bridle her 
tongue. “There come .all the vedelsl Look, child; 
aint that a pretty lot of young calves ? I am afraid you 
don’t see well where you are, and that Mere Jeanne and 
I are having all the best of the show to ourselves.” 

“Oh, no, gran!” Noel said eagerly; “I can see 
quite well The sun has made ray head ache a little, 
not being used to be out in it at this time of the day; 
but if I keep quiet it will go off.” 

“ Well-a-well I I wonder what will come to the girls 
next? ” said Paquette. “ Headache with the sun ! Why, 
here am I, as good at being roasted as coffee-berries, and 
I eighty- two come next Assumption ! ” 

“It’s all those railways !” said Jeanne; and then, 
looking round at Noel’s pale face, she said pitifully, 
“ Why, dear soul, you do look bad; and whatever makes 


IK THE CAMARGUE. 


45 


it, it’s just as bad to bear. Here, you change places 
with me, and then you can lean against this wine-barrel, 
and rest your poor head.” The good-natured old lady 
accordingly carried her point, and Noel was niched in 
the corner, where she could rest both her eyes and her 
head with silence, a support, and looking only dreamily 
at the sky and general landscape before her, for which 
she just now felt deeply thankful. 

Dreamily, she thus saw the herd of which Rambert 
was guard — the largest and most splendid in the neigh- 
borhood — pass before her : mottled brown, brown and 
white, tawny, and jet black. The tawny, small-headed, 
deer-like cows were unusually fierce, restless, and shy, 
knowing perfectly well that their calves were, by some 
mysterious means, going to be taken from them. The 
calves themselves, as wiry and fine-boned as young harts 
and hinds, were playing and galloping in every direc- 
tion which the drivers and bell-oxen allowed. The 
huge bulls, fitly chosen by the earliest defaulters from 
the knowledge of the one true Godhead as the type of 
majesty and force, — ineffable greatness and illimitable 
strength, — marched slowly along, as sacrificial victims 
worthy of sacrifice, looking like some endless frieze or 
the very epic of primitive life. Noel’s eyes, indeed, 
could not see — for ^Hhe eye sees only what it brings 
with it the power of seeing” — the poet’s dream which 
might have filled up the pauses between the acts with 
young boys, full-eyed, and long-locked girls in flowing 
white tunics, and red-lipped, fair women garlanded 
together and wreathed with ears of corn, aptly linking 


46 


nr THE CAMARGUE. 


all the details of this living poem together in one har- 
monious rhythm. Nor, therefore, did she see that to 
the discerning mind this rhythmic frieze was prophetic 
of the final Age of Peace, when man shall have returned 
to his first innocence and his first love, and all creation 
shall have ceased to groan and travail for sin. When 
drove after drove of calves had been separated from its 
own herd, and urged together into a sort of inclosure, 
partly of a living rampart of bell-oxen, partly of gar- 
dians and a large body of the owners on horseback, 
partly of the stands of carts and pales ; when all .this 
had been achieved, the cattle-guards and their assistants 
leaped from their horses, ran to the piles of split muzzles 
that were ranged on purpose at intervals, and then each 
one seizing the calves dexterously in turn, forced their 
noses and mouths into the cylinder of split wood, which 
closed over it so tightly as to hinder any attempt at 
drawing milk from the cows. This rough procedure, 
done with no soft or gentle hands, set the poor calves 
frantically running up and down, shaking their heads to 
rid themselves of the muzzles, and lowing piteously in a 
mujffled way ; while all the cows responded with con- 
tralto voices, lashing their tails, and throwing their 
heads in the air. They ended by trotting up and down, 
seeking out and feading away their own calves, when 
they could quietly lick them all over to soothe their 
discomfort and wounded feelings. 

This first act of muzzling the calves was compara- 
tively easy, but when it came to the hioules^ or elder 
young bullocks, that by some accident had never yet 


jy THE CAMARGUE. 


47 


been taken from the cow, there followed a stiff fight, 
and a tremendous uproar, upon which the women of 
course reckoned as the cream of the festivity. Some of 
the cattle-guards were knocked down, ignominiously 
biting the dust ; many of them were wounded and 
grazed by the bullocks’ horns and teeth, and some of 
the most obstreperous hioules got away altogether, when 
the cattle-guards were forced to put off the chase of 
them to another day. But Paquette failed not to ob- 
serve and to remark aloud that none of these disasters 
occurred to Rambert. He seemed to be here and there 
and everywhere at once. His horse was the freshest 
and the best trained to follow the whistle or to stand 
stockstill ; his bullocks showed the most carefully culti- 
vated sagacity ; and his hand and arm seemed untiring, 
irresistible, and unconquerable, with the strongest and 
fiercest bullock in his employer’s herd. Murmurs of 
admiration several times swelled to loud shouts and cries 
of delight, as muzzle after muzzle was fixed upon the 
most vicious of the young cattle, and as Rambert 
mastered them while screaming and kicking on the 
ground. It became bruited about, and the stream of 
rumor rolled round to Paquette and her companions, 
"'"'"that-^be-old Baron de I’Arc and his brother had gone 
among the other owners, and proposed to offer Rambert 
a handsome reward for his extraordinary exertions at 
this muselade. Some even said that the cattle-guard 
was to be set up with a herd of his own, and made 
proprietor of a run at once on his own account. This 
last news was reported by Privas himself, who had 


48 


IN THE CAMAEGUE. 


avoided coming within reach of what may be called the 
Grand Stand till a sense of overpowering hunger 
constrained him reluctantly to seek the quarter of food 
and to put his sullenness aside. 

^‘Dame! that is news!’’ said Paquette. “Why, 
Nicole, that is nearly an unknown thing to happen. I 
remember, years ago, when Arcoux’s father had a pres- 
ent made him after a muselade. But it is a good many 
years since a thousand francs were spent like that in this 
country.” 

“Yes; and it is a good many years since a cattle- 
guard was seen like Rambert. Some fools look at noth- 
ing but a fellow’s brown face and rough hair, as if a 
gardian who fears neither beast nor devil could be kept 
in a woman’s pin-box. But women are all fools, and no 
mistake ; they will all let their cocoons be eaten through 
by the grub inside for want of knowing when to wind 
their silk. I say Rambert is worth all his weight in pure 
gold.” 

“And that would be a good sight of napoleons, M. 
Privas,” laughed old Jeanne, wrinkling up her brown 
face with keen enjoyment. “ I should say a very good 
sight ! He is the tallest gardian, and indeed the tallest 
man I have set eyes on for many a long year. Who is 
it that objects to his brown skin and uncombed hair, M. 
Privas?” 

“A good many, I dare say,” put in Paquette, seeing 
that Nicole winced under this direct question. “ But 
look at those strangers; I am sure their hair and faces 
look as if they had been kept in pin-boxes. Who are 


JAT THE CAMARGUE. 


4D 


the two strange men out there, Nicole, talking to Ram- 
bert?’’ 

‘‘Oh, some strange travellers, I suppose, come to see 
the mt4se?ac?e,” said Privas, carelessly. “I saw two 
men just now that looked to me like Prussians, walking 
about with books in their hands. They had better not 
come spying down here. They won’t get much out of 
us.” 

“Prussians! God save us!” exclaimed Jeanne, and 
even Noel sprang up to see the fiends in human shape 
that had become suddenly visible to the naked eye in the 
Camargue. 

“ Pouf ! I don’t say they are Prussians,” said Privas. 
“ But they are just like the pictures I saw in the Aigues 
Mortes Phare ^ after the war, and they are no sort of 
Frenchmen, that I’ll swear; for I heard them talking to 
one another in a gibberish that no one could ever make 
out — a sort of hissing and whistling speech like some of 
our seafowl in a storm.” 

“Perhaps they are English ? ” ventured Noel, timidly. 
“I’ve heard that the English hiss a good deal in their 
talk. Why, father,” she added, quite forgetting her 
father’s displeasure in her astonishment, “they have 
quite red and white faces, with light-colored hair ! How 
odd it is to see girl’s faces on tall, strong men ! ” 

Privas muttered something in reply which Noel did 
not catch, about wishing all the girls and men removed 
to some less favored region ; and Paquette, seeing that 
he was much put out, though she could not guess the 
cause, bade Noel bring out the basket and plates, and 


50 


IK THE CAMARGUE. 


see what there was for their dinner. The food was soon 
unpacked. The cold meat, salads, and hard eggs were 
laid on the basket lid, and Noel cut up and dressed a 
portion of salad for each plate. There was a little bar- 
rel of wine ; and, in spite of his displeasure, Privas not 
only managed to make a hearty meal himself, but sum- 
moned several friends to come and drink a cup of the 
rough red hermitage which is largely made in the 
upper vineyards of the Rhone valley. While the party 
were enjoying themselves, and while so doing uncon- 
sciously painted a picture most delightful to the eye, the 
pair of Prussian spies were thus delivering themselves 
out of earshot : — 

Leo, I have swallowed my poem, and I am judiciously 
assimilating it. Now it’s your turn, and there stands 
your picture ready painted before you.” 

was just remarking that same to myself, while 
you were discoursing the giant Faun. That pair of old 
women, — one solemnly tragic, the other finely comic, — 
the sullen, dangerous, handsome middle-aged farmer, and 
those brown-faced, laughing friends of his, make a fine 
setting and frame for the girl. By Jove ! Nasmyth, 
what a face that girl has ! What is she like? Jeanne 
d’Arc, a Mexican Madonna, or Miriam with the timbrel 
by the Red Sea? ” 

That’ll do just for a beginning. I thought of Ma- 
riana in the South till she smiled and looked up. What 
is she to all the rest, I wonder? ” 

‘‘ Sullen-face’s daughter, I should say. She has the 
same bones in the forehead and jaw, as painters are bound 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


51 


to obsorve. Let us go and judge of the coloring a little 
nearer. It is too good a bit to lose.’’ 

The two men, who both carried a small knapsack, an 
object-glass, and a walking-staflf umbrella strapped about 
them, sauntered nearer to the covered cart and the group 
surrounding it, and when they came within reach took 
off their tall, light, shady hats, and saluted the women. 
The one whom his friend had called Leo,” keeping his 
hat still in his hand, unabashed, and with a perfect com- 
mand of French, then asked if he might venture to beg a 
draught of wine for himself and his friend, as they had 
lost their way in the Camargue. 

At this appeal, during which all eyes, even Noel’s, 
were widely fixed upon him, Privas courteously, though 
still a little sullen, held out a cup to his mother for the 
wine; and while she was filling it, he fixed his eyes 
kindly on the stranger, and said, Monsieur is, perhaps, 
a German ? ” 

“ Not I, indeed, sir ! Do you think if I were one of 
those fellows I should have the face to come skulking 
about here in France ? We’re both of us Englishmen ; 
though I’m afraid you will not think that much better.” 

“Pardon, sir, very much the contrary. The English 
certainly did not fight for France, but they did not come 
overrunning a Christian country with a host of savages, 
burning poor folks’ houses^ and carrying away all their 
clocks as loot ! ” 

“ I am happy to say we had no part in any such bar- 
barous conduct,” replied Leopold, with praiseworthy 
gravity. “I have the honor to drink your health, sir, 


62 


IN THE CAMARGUE, 


and the health of these ladies, and to thank you for your 
hospitality to two tired wanderers.’’ 

Both the men drank their wine with the same courte- 
sies, and having made a very favorable impression on the 
party, they were about to take leave, when Privas said, 
Whither are you bound, gentlemen, if I may ask? ” 
‘‘Certainly you may,” replied Leopold, who seemed 
naturally to assume the office of spokesman. “ We are, 
for the present, only driftweed in the neighborhood. I 
told you just now, and with a certain degree of truth, 
that we had lost our way. By this I mean that we had 
lost the track that should, I think, have taken us 
straight to Les Stes. Maries, wffiich we are bound to visit. 
But any road which gives us sketches and new ideas is 
our way just now, and if you know of anything worth 
drawing or noting hereabouts, it will be very kind in you 
to point it out. As well as some house or farm — mas^ 
don’t you call it ? — where we could have rooms, or, at 
least, a room with a couple of beds, for two days.” 

“You can come to my farm at Oabridelle, gentlemen, 
and welcome,” replied the genuine Provengal. “ We can 
make you welcome that far, if you do not ask for feather- 
beds and carpets.” 

“We shall certainly take you at your word, sir,” 
said the painter again. “Any sort of bed, even a 
kitchen-table, will be welcome; and as to carpets in 
this climate, I should say the cool floor is far more 
agreeable. Thanks a thousand times for your true Pro- 
vencal hospitality. I suppose the day’s business here is 
nearly over? ” 


IK THE CAM ARGUE. 


53 


“The muselade is over, I think, but the dancing is 
now going to begin. You had better accept a little food 
out of our basket, for it will be some time yet before we 
shall see home again.’’ 

After a brief consultation between the two men, this 
offer was gratefully accepted ; and as Noel helped them 
10 the remnants of meat and salad, a few gentle, cour- 
teous, amusing remarks were made to her by the painter, 
chiefly by way of getting an opportunity of looking 
at Noel’s wonderful eyes. The tone of his voice, the 
gentle, calm words, so considerately deferent, and the 
self-control and ease of good-breeding, were all so new 
as to make a considerable impression on the girl, into 
whose life two real gentlemen had just now dropped for 
the first time. Her pale, brown cheeks tinged slightly, 
like color seen under thin porcelain, her eyes looked up 
under their fringed lids, her delicate lips curved with 
that faint smile habitual to her, and she seemed to 
breathe more eagerly and quickly, as if the swift blood 
ran in a more stirring current of life. Her horizon had 
widened, and, whether it were solid land or mirage, the 
landscape she was now looking at seemed touched with 
brighter and more divine hues. 


54 


IN THE CAMARQUE. 


CHAPTER V. 

HARRY NASMYTH SPEAKS HIS MIND. 

Leopold Morland was drawing with all his vigor. 
He often sketched, etched, or lazily dashed on color 
with a sort of voluptuous languor, though every stroke 
showed knowledge, as well as the conceptive feeling 
and impluse which are commonly called genius. But 
to-day he was mixing his colors and washing them on, 
as if the creation of his subject was to be the event of 
the century. Yet, while he worked, his face seemed 
absorbed in other things. His mind must have been 
working far otherwise, though as vigorously, than his 
long, supple hands. 

Harry Nasmyth sat some way off, working out some 
trigonometrical problem, for which his broad, square 
head, massive brow and jaw, and strong hands, showed 
him apt. For there are hands of a poet, and hands of a 
subtle thinker, and hands for science and hard brain- 
labor, and rock-like persistency in whatever is under- 
taken. These two men were each types in his own way. 

The painter was certainly charming to the eye and 
ear, and delightful as a companion. His delicate 
modelled face, small ears, and long, serene violet-blue 
eyes, were almost feminine, as well as the thick flakes 


IK THE CAMARGUE. 


55 


of his yellow-brown hair, a little browner than his 
splendid beard, which flowed down like waved silk 
over his loose gray blouse. If his mouth could have 
been clearly seen, some indecision and looseness of 
purpose would have been read in it, but shaded and 
framed as it was, it was very beautiful. His hands 
were very delicate and taper, but he was strongly and 
healthily made, deep-chested and well armed, as one of 
a former Oxford Eight should be, and he stood a little 
over six feet in height. 

Harry Nasmyth was seven or eight years older than 
his friend, and unlike him in most of his qualities and 
characteristics. His dark brown hair lay in one thick 
flat mass across his square brow, rather too heavily over- 
hanging the dark, trustworthy eyes. His nose and 
mouth were undisguised by beard or mustache, and 
showed firmness, decision, and perhaps obstinacy, in 
every line. But the deeply cleft, excellently moulded 
chin and jaw showed both fine character and good blood, 
and redeemed the general heaviness of his face. If you 
felt that Nasmyth was not exactly the man for gentle 
toying or summer half-hours, you knew instantly, also, 
that in storms and trouble he would be a refuge of rock. 
He had distinguished himself on the continent and in 
India as a civil engineer in great works, and was just 
now engaged, under the French Government, in taking 
a series of observations in the Rhone delta, with a view 
to finding the best basis for a network of canals. In 
crossing the Alps above Grenoble, he had met with this 
old Marlborough and Oxford chum, who, as a school- 


56 


nr THE CAMAI2GUE. 


fellow had been his fag^ and whom he had protected and 
befriended in a thousand ways ; while at Oxford he had 
done all he could to make him give up wines and break- 
fasts, and read for his degree. Throughout their joint 
life at Oxford it had been the marvel of all his friends that 
the crack reading man of the year, going in for honors, 
should waste his hours and unsport his oak for the sake 
of -the idle, reckless ne’er-do-weel, whose only object in 
life seemed boating and the foolish spending of money, 
norland’s degree, of course, went overboard ; his name 
was taken off the University books with some sense of 
disgrace ; and his father, a distinguished Royal Acade- 
mician, then insisted on his taking up his own branch of 
art as his profession, and cut off his son’s supplies until 
he had acceded to his wishes, and put his shoulder well 
to the wheel. Probably, if his talents, or, as we have 
already said, his genius, — his astonishing gifts and feel- 
ing for form and color, and the aptitude for the manual 
labor required, — had been a whit less striking, Leopold 
Morland would have thrown his palette and brushes after 
his degree, and have gone recklessly and pleasantly to 
the dogs. Happily, he was saved from this catastrophe ; 
and when once the mighty leverage of interest had 
achieved hanging his picture — and hanging it much 
more advantageously than those of far more deserving 
men — on the magic walls, the younger Morland’s fame 
bid fair to eclipse his father’s, and to make him really a 
name. All that was wanting now was that persistent 
study and diligence in genuine hard work, without 


jjy THE CAMARGUE. 


57 


which, in art, as well as in science, aptitude and feeling 
are only fleeting and perishing gifts. 

Nasmyth had for the present mastered his premises, 
if in trigonometry there be any premises, and clutched 
his result exactly as he was clutching, with his left 
hand, the thick flakes of his hair. He wrote down 
certain figures, signs, and memoranda, and then threw 
himself back in his chair with a sigh of relief. Both 
the men were at work in the large upper room assigned 
them at Cabridelle, which was bare of everything like 
bedroom furniture, except the mere beds and a bench, on 
which a pair of great brown pans and two-handled jars 
represented Provencal washing-apparatus. But the floor 
was as clean as hands could make it, the windows w^ere 
garlanded with roses, and the air that blew in was laden 
with their fragrant odor. 

Nasmyth watched his friend at work for some time, with 
his clasped hands thrown back behind his head, and then 
he said, What's my thought like, Leo? ’’ 

Morland stooped to mix two colors which seemed to 
give him more trouble than usual, and then said, in a 
voice unlike his own ringing tones, ‘‘Why do you ask 
that just now? ’’ 

“ Because there is something more than usual in your 
mind, and I should like to know what troubles you.’^ 

“‘Troubles are pleasures sometimes,’ according to 
Mrs. Brown,” replied Leo, with a slight laugh. “I 
have no special trouble, Harry. Dear old fellow ! you’re 
always looking out for rocks ahead of Telemachus.” 


58 


JiV THE CAMARGUE. 


The right thing for the man at the wheel to do, aint 
it ? To tell the truth, I do see a whole reef of rocks just 
now, Leo, and I think, if you speak honestly, you are 
seeing them too. We came here for two days, after that 
calf-muzzling business, and we have been here just a 
month.’’ 

‘‘Well!” rather defiantly broke in Leo. “Have I 
wasted my tinie ? I have never drawn so fast or so well. 
I have never cut out four works to such advantage before. 
I have a whole case of sketches for ‘ lights ’ ; and just 
come and look at this ! ” 

“ I will, presently, when you have looked at my pic- 
ture. If your drawing or your Academy thing were the 
one thing to live for, I should not have a word to say ; 
but there are higher things, I suppose, in a fellow’s life 
than just his trade. There is himself, and his own 
climbing up or falling down. I am really afraid about 
that dear little girl, Leo, that’s the truth. If she shdtild 
get to care for you, what an awful mess it would be ! ” 

“ j 5^,” repeated Leopold, with a slight scornful empha- 
sis. “Or if she should get to care for you, old fellow, 
how would it be then? ” 

“Don’t joke just now, Leo; you know what I 
mean.” 

“Oh, I do know indeed, dear old Conscience. I wish 
I didn’t. I’m not absolutely a beast, though I’m often 
very near it. But it’s all — By Jove ! she is so pretty. 
Look here I is not this like her? ” 

Nasmyth got up to inspect the water-color drawing 
Morland was doing for his Academy thing.” It was true 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


59 


that he had never been so diligent or alive to the vigor 
of labor before. The stimulus of mere emulation or am- 
bition would never act upon Morland as it acted upon 
more purely intellectual men. It was necessary for his 
heart, or perhaps, it should rather be said, his feelings, 
to be touched before his full emergies awoke and asserted 
themselves with power. He had chosen for his subject 
Jeanne d’Arc before her accusers, combining his group 
with more aim at aesthetic completion than accurate his- 
torical detail. The Black Duke,’’ Bedford, was stand- 
ing leaning on his two-handled sword, with a face of 
splendid serenity and power. Next him sat the Bishop 
of Beauvais, in his purple soutane and a fur- trimmed 
mantle, mingling characteristics of meek craft with deter- 
mined cruelty. His eyes were fixed upon Jeanne, and 
his long, subtle, transparent hands seemed to clutch at 
his chain and cross as if they were already clutching her 
in their steel grasp. In Bedford’s noble face there was 
not a possibility of cruelty, and his large eyes were fixed 
upon the “ Maid” with profound pity, though politically 
he had resolved upon her doom. The Bishop’s face, on 
the contrary,, showed the determination to punish her 
with torture, if possible, because she had resisted his 
despotic will. Jeanne stood in complete armor, with her 
head bare, and with her joined hands clasped on her 
sword. Her beautiful, dusky hair streamed over her 
shoulders, her lips were parted as if to speak, her large 
hazel eyes looked out, as if in infinite pity as well as infi- 
nite appeal, upon a hard and unjust world. It was the 
face, and eyes, and very expression of Noel, as she 


60 


nr THE CAMARGUE. 


looked when absorbed in thought upon some of the inex- 
plicable mysteries of life. 

“Yes, that is she, sure enough ! This is by far the 
best thing you have ever done, Leo,’’ was Nasmyth’s 
criticism. 

“Is it not? ” said Leopold, looking up at him exult- 
ingly, as he leaned back in his straw chair. “It was 
worth coming so far for, now, wasn’t it, to get just that 
face? ” 

“The picture certainly is. But if it were to end in 
the misery of that face, Leo, I’d sooner you burnt the* 
canvas and never touched a brush again.” 

“ Touched a brush ! Why, old fellow, I’d break them 
all and throw them into the fire myself. Ay, and all 
my pictures to boot. But why should our Croix 

Amour ^ be made miserable? ” 

“ Could you marry her, Leo? ” 

“Well, I really don’t see why not — I don’t see the 
impossibility, I mean.” 

“Not see? Why, could you possibly live on what 
you make for yourself, Leo ? Should you be willing to 
live without your present comforts; and I believe you 
have scarcely any margin now even for yourself? ” 

“Most conscientious and discreet Chancellor of my 
Exchequer, alas ! it is too sadly true that I have no other 
‘ margin ’ than that of unsatisfied wants. But I might 
be able to live as a married man abroad.” 

“But you w'ould not like to settle down here, Leo. 
It is very well to come gypsying about now and tKen 

♦ A little aster so called, very common in the Camargue. 


m THE CAMARGUE. . 


61 


with a camp-kettle, but it would not advance your inter- 
ests if it were for life. Men out of sight very soon slip 
behind the stream of London memories, and then good-by 
to their fame. They may keep on clutching at the 
boughs on the river banks for a while, but they can never 
really row themselves up again to the mark of those who 
are always present.’’ 

•‘You are right there, Harry. It is the hardest work 
in the world to fetch one’s self up even after a few months’ 
absence, and if one is not waiting all ready to scrape and 
grin when the season begins. It is a heartless old city, 
that same London.” ^ 

“It is a grand old city, as full of breathless life as 
the Olympic games,” replied Nasmyth. “ All that is 
required to live there is to be well oiled and to be ready 
waiting in the ring. There is no capital in the world, 
after all, where the race so really crowns the swift, and 
the battle the strong. But you must strain your mus- 
cles and have your lungs in order, and you must not 
start with a clog. Why not first make your name, and 
then look out for the reward of marriage ? ” 

“Why not? why not? Well, I’ll tell you why,” 
said Leo, throwing down his brushes and palette, and 
getting up excitedly. “Because I love Noel Privas, 
dear old Harry, and — I think — well, I think that she 
loves me ! ” 

“You have not told her so? 0 Leo! could it be 
fair to her or honorable to her father? ” 

“ What it is the most honorable to do I cannot 
imagine. I was trying to unravel just that skein when 


62 


IIT THE CAMARGUE. 


you spoke to me a while ago. I can never go away 
silent, feeling as I do ; and if I speak, of course there 
ought to be more to follow.’’ 

Better be silent forever than give hopes that must 
either be at once quenched or die out miserably,” said 
Nasmyth. “ I wish to God we had never come ! ” 

‘‘Dear old fellow, don’t take it so dreadfully to heart. 
You know I’m bound forever to be in some scrape, and 
it might have been infinitely worse. Something will 
turn up yet. You know I’m one of the Micawber 
family.” 

Nasmyth could not control his wonder, as he fixed his 
serious brown eyes upon the face of Jeanne d’Arc, and 
read there the whole drama of the living Noel’s love. 
There was its countertype. The heroic fight guided 
throughout by the loftiest impulse of a devout maiden 
heart ; the self-sacrifice which would revel in the toil and 
peril ; the treachery, the revelation of the broken reed to 
which she had trusted, the torturing rack, the unspeak- 
able anguish which would crown that death with the 
lasting beauty born of heroic trust and pain mastered by 
love. As Jeanne was there pictured, leaning on her 
sword and looking to the years to come only for justice 
and righteous judgment, so would Noel look when her 
love-dream should lie broken at her feet. 

And Morland could so paint the consequences of his 
own acts, without feeling or knowing the least what he 
did ! Nasmyth slowly turned from the picture with a 
face so pained, that even Morland’s soft, light nature 
was touched to the quick. He knew and valued the 


J2V THE CAMAROUE, 


63 


weight of his friend’s opinion, and, throwing his brushes 
into the pan of water on the floor beside him, he said, 
‘‘Come, old fellow, let us pull up sticks directly, and carry 
our goods to some other place ! I can’t bear you to look 
so scrumptious as all that. I must see both Les Stes. 
Maries and Aigues Mortes. Let us slope away to one 
or other at once, and then there’ll be an end of it all ! ” 

“Leo, you’re a regular brick at heart! ” gladly ex- 
claimed Nasmyth. “Yes, that will be our best plan, 
after all; if a month’s feelings can’t be mastered, I know 
nothing of men or women or life. But do let it be in 
earnest, Leo, this time, and I’ll help you to put up your 
traps.” 

“ No, no, thank you ! Your own head is excellently 
well packed, I know, and I am sure your knapsack is 
too ; but I can’t stand my brushes having all their noses 
flattened, and the water-colors clapped face to face. 
But if you’ll go out and see about the distances, and 
landmarks, and so on, without letting where we’re go- 
ing be visible to the naked eye, it . would be time well 
spent.” 

“I’ll find up old Privas, and get a map well into my 
head,” said Nasmyth; and he took down his broad-leafed 
hat from its nail, and went out. 


64 


IN THE CAMARQUB. 


CHAPTER VI. 

HOW LEOPOLD MORLAND OBEYED HIS CONSCIENCE. 

Leopold’s face drooped as the door closed upon the 
man whom he had, during the time of their late com- 
panionship, re-christened by the name of My Con- 
science,” a name well-know’n and dear to him in his 
school-boy and college-days. It was no doubt well for 
him to possess such a support and strength, and well, 
also, that he did not engender upon it any secret jeal- 
ousy and dislike of the very hand that was at once a 
hindrance as well as a guide. Hitherto, no such con- 
temptible feeling had debased his nature, or dragged him 
down to the lower depths of ingratitude and thankless 
repugnance to benefits freely given. But there was no 
security that some such root of bitterness would not 
spring up ; for whenever any of us lean upon a con- 
science or strength outside our own — short' of the high- 
est — and strive to make it fulfil the functions which 
can only really be performed by our own individual 
moral energy and will, it is sure to avenge our coward- 
ice by chafing and burdening us, turning out either a 
lifeless weight or a gnawing chain upon our hands. 
And if the cowardice is inherent, and the moral nature 
too sickly to revive, the burden of the external con- 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


65 


science is either borne and repaid by malignant ha- 
tred, or it is cast off by evasion and deceit. These 
evil fruits had not by any means yet ripened in Mor- 
land, but the germs were formed and set, and were likely 
soon to evince a hot-house growth in that shallow, fria- 
ble soil. 

He slowly drew his arms out of his painting blouse, 
and drew it over his head, put together his dry brushes, 
pencils and tools, and threw them into the round case 
he always travelled with, rolled up his sheets of paper, 
and left nothing but the small, portable easel and the 
drawing upon it. He looked at it lingeringly and fondly, 
partly the fondness of his own proud success, partly a 
finer kind. 

Not half so beautiful as she is — my Provence rose. 
How can I ever leave her here to blow in a garlic bed ? 
And why should I ? He is a good fellow, the best fel- 
low in the world ; but how can a mathematician be any 
judge of Provence roses? And then, can’t I do as I 
like ? Who’s to hinder ? If I choose to live a gypsy 
life, as he calls it, what is it to Jones, Brown, or Kob- 
inson ? I could live abroad very well, and take home a 
picture regularly, to astonish the world. Look at 
L and G . Are their things less valued be- 

cause they live in ‘ foreign parts ’ ? Harry is too John 
Bullish in his ideas — too groovy. Artists must always 
have a certain fling. And then, what a spur to have 
such a wife as that to urge one on ! To be 'sure, I must 
lose all chance of a wife for society — and then there is 
little Car Chetwynd and her money, and I think — I 


66 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


think she would marry me. Think! By Jove! Tm 
sure of it. My father wishes it, too, I know, and this 
affair he would call Hhe world ill lost for love.’ But 
still, in marriage above all other things, one ought to be 
as free as air. Infernal nuisance that people should 
have to marry at all I Why not have two or three 
wives, all in different places ? And why not do with- 
out marriage altogether, and just take up as one happens 
to love ? I declare I think a free-love settlement in the 
far west is the right sort of thing for men. I wonder 
what Noel would say to me, now? By Jove! and I 
had quite forgotten she was a little Papist ! Perhaps 
she would not marry a Protestant, let alone a Christian 
Socialist, or whatever it is that I am. There’d be the 
priest, and the ‘ sacrament,’ and marriage in her own 
church. Oh, confound it all ! ” 

He flung himself off to the window, there gathered a 
rose, and after pricking his finger savagely with a sweet, 
large red blossom, hastily pulled a delicate, half-blown 
fiower, vividly pink at the heart, shaded off lighter 
towards the rim, and with a crumpled, tissue-paper look 
that' made it extremely lovely This rose had not a 
single thorn, but then it had not either a particle of 
smell. As Leo was curiously observing this to himself, 
and idly casting his eyes across the broad widths of sil- 
very sand; his face suddenly lightened with pleasure, 
and, leaning out of the window, he imitated exactly the 
call of the thrush, then quickly drawing himself in, he 
threw on his hat, and rushed down the ladder-like stairs, 
and out of the ever-open door into the orchard. 


nr THE CAMARGVE. 


67 


A strange, wild sort of orchard it was : orange trees, 
cultivated for their flowers only ; almond trees, whose 
flowers were now going by ; mulberry trees for the silk- 
worms, whose stripped boughs even added somewhat to the 
wild southern grace of the tangled wilderness. As in 
all the oases of the Camargue, the irrigated fertility, 
like that of Egypt, was rankly luxuriant. Lucerne, and 
various sorts of clover and trefoil, self-seeded, sprang 
underfoot, and roses and vines twisted themselves round 
the mulberry trees, hanging down again in cascades of 
blossom and budding fruit. In this orchard Noel was 
standing on a short step-ladder, shaking orange-blossoms 
into a large sheet, and as the gentle movement of the 
loaded boughs sent down a continuous shower of snowy 
petals, the girl and her frame-work of orchard, and her 
occupation, made at once a poem and a picture which 
must have satisfied the most fastidious eye. She was 
singing in a clear, high "treble, one of those strange, 
caustic old-rhymed proverbs which, like many other 
things, have been preserved in Provence from the days 
of le bon Reignier, rei de Jerusalem, de Arago, di 
ambas las Sicilias et de Valencia’^ {Valence). 

“Qui sages liom sera 
Ici trop ne parlera,” 

Ce dist Salomon. 

“ Qui ja mot ne dira 
Grant noise ne fera,” 

Mar col lui repond. * 

When she heard the thrush call, she suddenly ceased 

* Salomon et Marconi^ — an old Proven9al poem. 


68 


IN THE CAM ARGUE, 


her song, threw back her head till her long, curved 
lashes rested against her brow, and her liquid, wonder- 
ful eyes looked radiant with delight. Her lips parted a 
little, her soft cheek slightly tinged, and her fine nos- 
trils dilated as if she were about to spring into the air. 
Seeing Leopold disappear from the window, she bent 
down her head again, and busied herself with her work 
as before, one small ear growing scarlet as she heard 
him brushing the grass with his firm, quick steps. 

“ Birdie ! where are you ? Why are you perched so 
early on the orange trees ? What are you doing there, 
little one? ’’ 

“ Gathering the orange blossoms for the distiller, sir. 
Our trees here are only good for flowers.’’ 

“ And why so ? What becomes of the fruit, Noel ? ” 

‘‘The oranges scarcely ever ripen, sir; when they 
do, they are only wild, bitter oranges, fit for nothing 
but a sort of candy.” 

Noel bent her head further into the orange tree, and 
a thick shower of fragrant petals fell. Leopold had 
stretched himself at full length in the grass, and after 
a pause, he said, “Perhaps there are some lives like 
that, Noel, which never yield any ripe fruit. Still the 
sweet flower is something. I am sure this is worth 
having. I do really believe that I have sagaciously hit 
upon something worth drawing out. Noel, I wish you 
would leave off shaking your trees for five minutes, and 
sit down on the step of the ladder and listen to me. Can 
you ? ” 

Noel looked at him in surprise, but she had somehow 


Jivr THE CAMARGUE. 


69 


fallen into an unconscious way of obeying Leopold's 
wishes, regarding him as some strong, blessed influence 
whom she must obey, just as certain flowers turn their 
petals or fold them up when the sun goes down. She 
came gently down the few steps of the ladder, and 
sitting down on the lowest, folded her small brown 
hands over one another in her lap, waiting with 
every nerve expectant for the words that were to 
come. 

‘•You know. Birdie,’’ Morland began; — “but no, 
you don't know — never mind.” Then, struggling 
against the strong fascination of the moment, he began 
again, “ Noel, you know that I am a painter who paints 
pictures for a living, just as your father farms for a 
living. But there is this difference, or rather there are 
these two points of difference between us. Your father 
makes his farm pay him very well, and gets rich ; and 
my pictures do not pay very well yet. I think they will 
pay by and by, but it takes some time to make a name. 
And then your father and your grandmother and you 
have all been used to work and to live like working peo- 
ple from childhood, which makes it come easier to you. 
I have never, till quite lately, been used to work at all, 
and I do not like work, I am sorry to say, for its own 
sake, or for long together. I like to have plenty of 
money, and to be free, and to work only when I am in 
the mood. I want to travel, and to see strange coun- 
tries and people, and to be free to paint only when I 
think I can do it well. I have never cared much about 
money till now.” 


70 


JiV THE CAMARGUE. 


He paused suddenly, and Noel looked up. 

“Until now? Yes, sir, you mean that now you 
wish to have more things, and to be rich. But your 
pictures are very beautiful, sir ; I think noble lords and 
gentlemen will give a great many napoleons for them. 
It is much pleasanter to paint than to live by a farm, 
sir.’’ 

“ Is it. Birdie? I am surprised you should say that. 
I like nothing better than to see you about the farm 
gathering leaves and fruit and flowers, as you are doing 
now.” 

“Yes, sir, just this is all very well,” replied Noel, 
drawing herself up with a long breath ; “ but there are 
so many times when I am tired ! I am tired of the 
fowls, and of the goats, and of spinning ; and I want to 
learn, and to have many books, and to see other places 
too. I have always longed so much to go up among the 
mountains, which we see sometimes out there with snow 
on their peaks. There is such a large world somewhere 
out beyond them, and I want to see it. I should like 
to see great churches, such as you showed me in your 
photographs, and to hear the bells and the organ. 
There are so many beautiful things in the world that I 
have never known, and I want to see some of them 
before I die.” 

“ My dear little Birdie, so you shall ! You shall see 
lovely things and places long before then. Don’t talk 
about dying, please, but listen again to what I am going 
to say. I thought it right to tell you about my poverty 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


71 


and work, because I want you to see why I must go 
away/’ 

‘•Go away! Are you going away?” asked Noel, 
starting forward, clasping her hands sharply together, 
and speaking almost with a cry. 

“ My sweet child, I must go,” replied Leopold, deeply 
moved at her evident distress. “I must goto several 
other places in Provence before I can get into a ship at 
Marseilles, and go on to Italy. I really want to go into 
Italy before I go back to England, and show my picture 
in the great gallery I have told you about. If it is 
sold I shall have a good deal of money, and with some of 
it I shall come back here and see you again. That must 
be next year, Noel ; but what I want now is to say that 
you must not forget me.” 

“ Next year I A whole year I ” exclaimed the child, 
riveting her lovely, pleading eyes upon him, without 
the least knowing that he read her love for him in their 
depths. 

“Noel, my own darling, then you do care about me, 
don't you? ” 

“ Care? Oh, how I do ! ” murmured the girl, still as 
if in a dream. 

‘‘ And I love you, my sweet red rose, more than any- 
thing else in the world ! ” 

“Yes?” whispered Noel, her eyes drooping under 
his. 

“ But as I have just told you, darling, people who love 
each other must still have something to eat, and a roof 


72 


IN THE CAMARGVE. 


over their heads, and I cannot marry till there is some 
chance of at least food to eat and shelter/’ 

^‘Take a little farm and live out here,” slowly mur- 
mured Noel, still as if in a maze, fixing her glorious 
eyes upon liim. 

Leopold could no longer withstand the temptation. 
He put his arm round her, and said, laughing, “You 
darlino: bird ! We should be like Adam and Eve in 

o 

Eden, only we should have nothing to live on but olives , 
and bitter oranges ! No, my sweet one, that is a mere 
woman’s dream. Men are rough, practical creatures, 
who have to hew and carve out ways and means. But 
look at me,” he said tenderly, turning her face round to 
him. “Will you wait for me? Will you and can you 
bear to wait and keep yourself for me while I go to Italy 
and back to England, and try to get my father to allow 
me some money just to start with ? Will you be patient, 
for my sake, and promise me before I go away not to 
marry any one else ? But stay, Noel, stay, — is there 
not some one else whom your father wishes you to marry ; 
some one who could give you a home at once, and be 
good to you? Tell me, little one.” 

“I shall never marry him!” flashed out Noel, 
suddenly disengaging herself from Leopold. “ I told 
my father I would never marry Rambert, and I told him 
so too ! ” 

“Did he ask you, Noel, — that giant of a cattle- 
guard? My sweet love, that would indeed be mating 
a bird of paradise with a grizzly bear ! ” 

“I shall never marry him!” Noel passionately 


m THE CAM ARGUE. 


73 


exclaimed, again getting up and leaning against the 
orange-tree stem; ‘-and you have no right to speak as 
if I should. If you go away I shall never be married 
at all!’’ 

“My sweet one, that is talking foolishly. If I go 
away it will only be to get ready for our marrying. 
How will you like to live in black, dirty London, I 
wonder, with no orange or almond trees, and no blue 
sky ? ” 

“It will be blue, — it will be beautiful always with 
you,” murmured Noel; “but I shall never see it. If 
you go away I shall never see you any more.” 

“ My sweet little bird, I would take you with me if I 
could,” said Leopold, getting up, and taking both her 
hands; “but that is utterly impossible. I have not 
money enough even to take us both home. Now, look 
here, and listen, Noel ; this ring was my mother’s, and 
is the only one I have in the world. I am going to put 
it on your little finger, and pledge you my solemn troth. 
When I come back, it is on this very same finger that I 
shall put your marriage ring. You are not obliged ,to 
wear this openly before every one, and perhaps it will be 
best not to, but hang it round your neck with a little 
cord. Now give me your hand.” 

He took the passive little brown hand, and slipping 
the massive gold ring with one large pearl on her finger, 
Leopold said, in deep, tremulous tones, Privas^ 

/, Leopold Morland^ promise to come bach to make 
you my wife^ and here plight you my troth with this 
ring. Now, repeat these words after me, JSToel 


74 


IN THE CAMARQUE. 


JPrivaSf will take no other man than youy Leopold 
Morland^ for my husband^ and flight my troth by 
wearing this ring,’' ’’ 

Noel murmured the words after him, and she had 
scarcely finished when Leopold clasped her passionately 
in his arms, and kissed her eyes and lips again and 
again, saying, ‘^Nothing can ever part us now, Noel, 
except yourself! 

Noel raised her eyes to his with one long, beautiful, 
trusting look, never to be forgotten, and then, breathless 
and scared, she loosed herself from him and ran into the 
house. 


m THE CAMARQUE. 


75 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE FRUIT OF THE TREE. • 

It is a well-known fact that a few hours may so 
change, or influence, or reverse our whole life, that men 
have often felt as if they had ceased at night to be the 
same people they were at the beginning of the day. 
The sun is going its usual course, and will presently 
slope towards its westering. The old, familiar walls are 
round us, and the shadows of leafy boughs will gradually 
creep along them. The same dog, the family friend of 
years, will curl himself comma-shape for joy, and thrust 
his head into our hand for the accustomed caress. But 
within our heart and mind things are so changed with 
us, that we doubt whether life is real, or whether we are 
dreaming some dream. And if this change springs even 
from an overwhelming joy, there is in it so intense a 
sadness, or awe, that it has in it a distinct flavor of 
grief. 

Noel was testing this truth now. She had fled, 
scared, from Leopold’s tumultuous wooing, partly with 
a maiden’s true coyness of shame, but also because her 
very soul seemed grasped by some shadow that caused 
her intense dread. She had taken refuge in her little 
room upstairs under the roof, sitting on her pallet bed, 


76 


IN THE CAM ARGUE* 


and pressing the ring so hard that it had stamped the 
finger it encircled with its broad band. That broad, 
chased band, and the round, smooth pearl, seemed to tell 
her that her past self was dead and buried, and that new 
chapters of existence were soon to be unfolded and read. 
That old, formless, uncreated world of life, with its great 
peace and primal innocence, and still waters, was indeed 
closed and put away. And who would whisper to her 
of the wild changes, the tumultuous joys, and the 
unspeakable anguish to be unrolled in the book which 
now lay closed before her ? A shadow of dread indeed 
had even now fallen upon her. What would her father 
say when he knew for certain that she had promised to 
marry an English Protestant, whose home was far be- 
yond even the dim, distant world of Paris ? And what 
would Pere Maurel, the Oblate father at Aigues Mortes, 
say to her when he should hear that she was about to 
marry a Protestant ? Even Noel herself felt a shiver 
run through her as the “Alps upon Alps’’ of future 
consequences to her act began to rise in filmy visions 
before her, as if to carry her away from everything she 
had hitherto most prized and loved. How many a one 
besides Noel has been obliged to learn that when a weak- 
ened or unawakened will has caused the first slipping 
away from a solid mooring, circumstances swiftly glide 
in between the swimmer who is drawn away by the cur- 
rent, and the firm shore he has left behind him ! 

“ The present we fling from us like the rind 
Of some sweet future, which we after find 
Bitter to taste.” 


IJSr THE CAMARGUE. 


77 


Her father must of course be told ; but what of Pere 
Maurel? He would probably refuse her absolution if 
she persisted in marrying Leopold. And Iioav could sho 
give him up? And if she told Leopold himself, what 
would he say? “Foolish little child! cut your cross 
old priest, and have nothing more to say to him.’’ It 
would not be the first time, in his gentle, lazy rallying, 
that Leopold had told her this. And, if Pere Maurel 
insisted, could she give up Leopold now ? Could she ? 
The very thought seemed to tear her heart in twain. 
No ; the troth was plighted, the precious betrothal ring 
was firmly set on her finger, and she would be faithful to 
him to the end. The very thought of Kambert, and of 
the simple, rough country life she would have had to 
lead with him in his run, and among his cattle, made her 
shudder with horror. 

The growth which sprang from the fruit of the tree of 
knowledge was truly a tropical growth ; and although the 
sinister promise of knowing evil as well as good was not 
veiled, to be “as gods” overpowered all the natural 
shrinking from it. And so Noel, now, felt her roots 
striking down, and her branches stretching forth to un- 
known spheres of evil consequence and bitter fruit, while 
still the lying promise of a certain godlikeness of knowl- 
edge, and new realms of passion and feeling, swept her 
onward with an ever-increasing current. 

Leopold also, having eaten of the same fruit, — though 
with less awakened conscience than Noel, — was now 
going through those phases of suSering which may be 
likened to growing pains of the body. He had not at 


78 


IN THE CAM ARGUE, 


first intended anything but to amuse himself with Noel. 
He had wished to take her picture as an abiding model 
of the Cisalpine southern type of women, — that delicate, 
mobile, pallid, unsensual type which embodies the Mexi- 
can or Peruvian pictures of the Madonna. The childish 
or fairy face, with those passionate, deep eyes, always 
freshly telling the story of feeling, — a kind of heart epic 
which, like rich color harmoniously blended, never 
wearied his eye or mind. And, of course, one of the 
special snares and temptations of art lies in this fascina- 
tion of the subject to the forgetfulness of consequences. 
When Leopold had first sat watching Noel’s slight, frag- 
ile, harmonious figure, as she gathered mulberry leaves, 
or shook down orange blossoms, or unwound her slight, 
glossy silk strands from the cocoons, he had not thought 
for a moment what effect it might have upon her. With 
true masculine selfishness, he would jest and dally with 
her in his gentle, coaxing way, learning fragments of 
Provengal or teaching her English words, without a 
thought of how the mesmerism of such new intercourse 
might awaken kindred currents with fatal effect in her 
mind. And when he now sketched her as Nausicaa at 
the spring, now as Persephone gathering narcissus, and 
now as the Maid of Domreray musing at her distaff over 
^ the redemption of France, his mind was solely bent upon 
getting the uttermost poetry and the uttermost pleasure 
for himself out of this new study of a Provencal girl. To 
him she became a poem, a frieze, a melody of deep pathos, 
a whole drama rich with color. But what he was becoming 
to her, how her horizon was widening and brightening, 


jzvr THE CAM ARGUE. 


79 


and how full it had become of mirages like those of the 
neighboring sand-plains, never troubled his fast-flowing 
hours. Even when Nasmyth tried to rouse him to the 
reality, he resisted the awakening, as a lotos-eater would 
resist embarking afresh chained to the oar. The reality, 
however, now became imminent, and was pressed upon 
his mind. Leopold, too, was forced to think of his 
father, a brilliant, successful, much-courted Academician, 
who lived fully up to his large income, surrounded by 
his family of pretty daughters and blooming children, in 
a comfortable house, frequented by a large and varied 
circle of friends and intimates. Leopold had appeased 
his displeasure at last by throwing himself into his own 
profession, and by his brilliant promise of success. But 
the elder Morland had not contemplated his son’s mar- 
riage for many a year, if at all : for he, also, was selfish 
after his soft, worldly fashion, and liked the whole of his 
landscape to be flooded with sunshine, and, as Leopold 
well knew, he had not earned his own marriage. As he 
sat now at his window, finishing his cigarette and striving 
vainly to clear his ideas, a deepening gloom took pos- 
session of his fair face, and at last, throwing the end of 
his cigarette impatiently out of the window, he gathered 
himself up and went to see if Nasmyth had returned. 

He found him just coming upstairs to ask if Leopold 
would stroll along the plain to the pine wood ; and, glad 
to get rid of his own thoughts, he dashed back for his 
hat, and they set forth together. 

‘‘Well, I’ve got the whole route,” said Nasmyth, 
eagerly, taking out his pocket-case of the maps and 


80 


IK THE CAMAEGUE. 


directions, as they left the confines of the farm. Here 
are we, you see, just at this round 0 ; and here we shall 
be, I hope, to-morrow evening, at Les Stes. Maries. 
We must go round some distance by these ponds, so as 
not to get too near the marsh smell, but I think we can 
still manage it. I have got the promise of two capital 
little ponies, and they say we can be put up quite well at 
Les Stes. Maries.” 

‘‘Yes, I dare say, quite well,” answered Leopold, like ' 
a man walking in his sleep. 

“We can take a good look at the church, which seems 
to be curious, and at the salt plains, and perhaps stay 
there for the pilgrims. The great ceremony of opening 
the relics comes one day next week, and I am sure you 
will like to see that.” 

“ Like it? Yes — oh, I dare say I shall.” 

“ Why, Leo, what’s come to you ? Dear old fellow, 
you’re not ill ? ” 

“ No, Harry, I’m not ill, thank you. Well, then, 
to-morrow we’re bound for Les Stes. Maries. It’s rather 
soon, isn’t it ? ” 

“ Soon ? Why, didn’t we agree to leave the farm as 
soon as we possibly could ? Leo, I’m quite sure you’re 
ill. Why, your hand is quite burning ! ” 

“ Oh, hang it all ! ” exclaimed Morland, feverishly 
enough, throwing himself down on the first pine-log 
within the shade of the pineta. “ No, Harry, I’m not 
ill, unless to be the greatest fool in Christendom, and 
worse than a fool besides, is to be sick ! In that way 
I’m sick as death.” 


JiV THE CAMARGUE. 


81 


Nasmyth stood in front of him, leaning on his mighty 
cane, and at Leopold’s impetuous words his face became 
manifestly paler and more rigid as he asked, ^‘What 
have you done ? ” 

“I’ve done aY/” exclaimed Morland, hurrying his 
words out in a way very unusual to him. “ I’ve done 
exactly that very thing you warned me against ! Told 
Noel I loved her — asked her if she didn’t love me — 
bound myself to take her as my wife ! ” 

“ 0 Leo ! But thank God it is no worse ! ” added 
Nasmyth, in a very low, deep voice, and evidently 
relieved. 

“ No worse ? It is just as ‘ worse ’ as it can be. I 
hadn’t the least idea of doing such a thing ; I don’t 
know from Adam now how it all came about ; I think 
it was seeing that she cared so much. But, 0 Harry, I 
never thought the least how much — how much she 
could care ! I can’t think how women can be like that, 
and so different from men. I wish to my heart they 
weren’t ! I wish they could just play and joke, and 
go away and care nothing about one ! ” 

“Unsay that, Leo, please. If women could do so, 
all that is good in the world would be gone out of it. 
If they were the selfish brutes we are — ” 

“ Thank you, Harry ! 

“ Well, can you deny it? Isn’t it selfish to be hang- 
ing round a girl, and getting all the good out of her, 
and when all the honey’s gone, leaving her to eat her 
heart out? 0 Leo, I do wish to God we had never 
come ! ” 


82 


In TffE CAM ARGUE. 


Amen, Harry ! But there’s no use in that now. 
We have come, and we have got to go, which is the 
worst part of it. I don’t know now whether to write 
to my father straight off, and stay here for his answer, 
or go home and have it all out with him at once. You 
see he won’t give me anything to keep house with, if he 
aint pleased.” 

“Keep house? Oh, don’t think about that, Leo; 
you must bestir yourself now, and take the house on 
your own back.” 

“I desire nothing better, old fellow; but still we 
must have something to eat to make a beginning, and, 
jolly as my father is with us all, he can’t bear mak- 
ing any changes, or giving up a single thing he has 
been used to. I think I must go home, and take my 
picture, which I know he will like, and then ask him if 
he 'wouldn’t be pleased to have the original, too. We 
could begin very small, somewhere in the wilds of Ken- 
sington, and work our way up, unless I were to throw 
up England altogether, like L — ^ — , and only send homo 
pictures from here. We could live here for next to 
nothing, you know.” 

“ Don’t think of that,. Leo. What sort of man is he 
that can’t face a difficulty? You have only to finish 
some of your pictures now to start yourself well in 
your profession. And I feel sure that poor little Noel 
would be anything but an extravagant wife. I should 
take heart and go through it well now, and let your 
father see that you mean it.” 

“ You are truly my ‘conscience ’ ! ” exclaimed Mor- 


IJSr THE CAMARGUE. 


83 


land, gratefully, ^*and the best friend that a fellow ever 
had. Yes, Til go to my father and tell him all about 
her, and all about myself. I think, if he sees that we 
can be happy, and that Noel can be taught something 
of our ways, he will not set his face against it so much. 
And if he does, why then I must take the thing into 
my own hands.’’ 

There is another thing that you will have to do,” 
said Nasmyth, rather reluctantly, discerning, though un- 
willingly, that Leopold, even at this moment, was rather 
talking himself up to the mark, than eagerly maintain- 
ing his own position and that into which he had brought 
Noel. 

What is that? ” 

“ You have not seen old Privas, have you ? ” 

‘‘No; you don’t mean — ?” 

“You could not think of going away engaged to 
his child and say nothing about it to him ? ” 

“ That old hind ! Nasmyth, are you in earnest ? ” 

“ But, my dear fellow, will he not be your father-in- 
law?” 

“Oh, curse it all, and Paquette my grandmother! 
Deuce take it, Harry, we need never see either of them 
again!” 

“ Then you will do a very wrong thing. If you are 
too weak to own your wife’s claims, you should have let 
her alone altogether, and left her to her own people. 
And seriously, Leo, you ought now to make up your 
mind about this. It would be far better for you to go 
back to Cabridelle to-night, and say, ‘ Noel, we must 


84 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


part ; I have been very wrong — it has become impos- 
sible for us to marry; ’ than to wear her life and heart 
out with half measures. Your shame about her class 
and people would of itself kill her with a long, linger- 
ing agony.’’ 

‘‘How well you know her ! You must have studied 
her very closely,” said Morland, in some surprise. He 
was fastening his boot-lace as he spoke, or he might 
have seen the sudden flush and pallor on Nasmyth’s face. 
Little did the soft, careless, self-indulgent lounger know 
how charming Noel’s sweet childlikeness had been to 
that great, strong man; how easy it would have been 
to Nasmyth, also, to chat with her as she gathered fruit 
and leaves, or how strenuously he had watched himself 
lest he should win the love of the Provencal girl as 
the plaything of the hour, and cast it aside when the 
hour was gone. Could not he, also, have gladly smoked 
and dallied and chatted under the mulberry trees in 
the orchard ? Eating the lotos is pleasant to all men 
if they choose to unbrace their armor and enjoy. 

Nasmyth only said, “ You had better see Privas, of 
course, — who is by no means the boor he sometimes 
aSects, — and tell him you wish to marry Noel, but that 
you must return home to gain your father’s permission. 
You need not do more, except give him references to 
show who you are, and that he may be sure you are and 
mean what you say. I think old Paquette is your 
friend, though I am not sure ; but Privas is certainly 
master in his own house.” 

Every practical, daily-world detail that presented 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


85 


itself to him forced itself more and more unfavorably 
upon Morland ; but as he was wise enough to see that his 
friend was helping him, in the truest manner, in every 
w’ay he could, he thrust his sense of disrelish forcibly 
aside, and said, Your counsel is good, 0 king! and I 
will do my best to follow it.” 

Then he got up from the rosemary-covered sand-heap, 
to which he had removed after pacing up and down for a 
while, and said, ‘‘In that case 1 must be going home, 
for there is no time to lose.” And the two men went 
slowly back to the farm. 


Iir THE CAMARGUE* 


CHAPTER Vlir, 

MORE FRUIT OF THE TREE. 

‘^Mother, where is Noel? Send her to me directly.’^ 
This sudden summons, spoken in a loud, sharp voice, 
startled Paquette the next morning, after the farm- 
laborers had gone out, and she was busily rinsing the 
plates and cups in the outer kitchen. It was so unusual 
for Nicole to interrupt her in any household work, that 
the old woman felt that something strange had happened, 
and she went out to the fowl shed and called Noel in 
without an instant’s ^elay. 

Noel hastily scattered the remains of her corn and 
refuse to the fowls, and went into the kitchen with the 
basket on her arm. In the other hand she held a bunch 
of magnificent cocoons, which she was going to unwind. 
She was dressed in a clean red-and-white striped skirt, 
with a spotless muslin handkerchief crossed as usual and 
pinned behind. The ring of betrothal was already 
fastened to a narrow black velvet tied round her neck, 
with the ends hidden in her dress. The consciousness 
of it and of her newly found treasure had spread soft 
bloom on the clear dark, oval of her young cheek, and 
given a more bewitching softness to her eyes. In the 
kitchen she found her father, sitting in his boxwood 


JJV THE CAMARGUE. 


87 


chair, while Morland, leaning on the back of another 
chair, was standing at a little distance from him. The 
fiices of both men showed that the atmosphere was 
stormy, and when Noel came in, in her young, fresh 
beauty, Leopold felt as if the thundery air had suddenly 
broken out into spring sunshine. 

Father, did you send for me ” said the girks clear 
voice. 

I sent for you. Look me straight in the face. Is 
it true that you have engaged yourself to marry that 
gentleman standing there ? ’’ 

Noel’s face flushed to the brow as she replied, after 
a moment’s pause, “I have promised to be his wife, 
father.” 

“ Without telling thy grandmother or me, Noel? ” 

She came forward a few steps, and knelt down before 
him. “Father, he asked me yesterday. I did not 
know the least before that he — loved me. I could not 
say that I do not love him, and I could not refuse him 
when he asked me to give him my troth. I was going 
to tell grandmother this morning, as soon as I had fed 
the fowls.” 

“And you want to marry a heretic, a man not a 
Christian? Have you considered what a sin that is? 
Do you believe Pere Maurel will give you leave ? Do 
you wish to go away beyond Paris, and break our 
hearts ? ” 

“ Father ! ” again appealed Noel, clasping her hands, 
with a face that would have melted, a stone. “ Father, 
indeed he is a Christian ! You should hear him tell 


88 


IN TME CAMARGUE. 


about the Passion and Death of Christ. And he will 
never hinder me from practising my own religion, and 
he says there are many beautiful Catholic churches in 
London, with candles and large Madonnas, who have 
altars of their own. Father ! do not speak to Pere 
Maurel. Let me go and see him myself, and tell him 
about the English gentleman in my own way. I 
think he will understand how it is, and give his 
consent.’’ 

Thou art an ungrateful, unnatural child ! ” bitterly 
exclaimed Privas, with an evil light in his eyes, which 
looked almost murderous in their wolf-like glare. I 
had arranged for thee a marriage which was Christian 
and good, and with a man who has a home where thy 
grandmother could* have had a shelter in her old age, 
and when the work gets too heavy for her here. I had 
spoken about this to Rambert, the cattle-herd, who is 
fool enough to love thy white chit’s face as if it were the 
Madonna’s own. That marriage Pere Maurel would 
bless, and then thod and thy children would also have 
been blessed to the third generation. But thou must 
needs go making love to a strange man behind our backs, 
and thou dost richly deserve to be locked up with a 
father’s curse.” 

“Stop, sir,” exclaimed Morland, in such a tone that 
even the angry Provencal checked himself, and only 
glared at him without speaking. “Whatever evil 
words you would feel it yojar duty to cast at your daugh- 
ter must now be spent on me. Noel is not capable of 
making love, as you call it, to any man, nor has she ever 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


89 


been underhand at all. - Whatever has been wrong on 
that point belongs to me. She has nothing to do with 
it. I only have been in fault ; and you must remember, 
sir, that in my own country men and women speak to 
one another first of their affection, and afterwards to their 
parents. Blame me, for I ought to have controlled my- 
self and recollected that it is not so in France ; but Noel 
is in no way to blame in a matter in which she was taken 
by surprise.’’ 

And you were very wrong to take her by surprise ! ” 
retorted the fiery old man. “ You were a guest in my 
house, and the child should have been sacred to you. 
And now you have gone and won her love with your fair 
face and soft words, just to break her heart ! Pere 
Maurel will never sanction this marriage, even if I would 
consent. Your own father will never agree to let his son 
marry a maiden of another class than his own, and it 
never brings any happiness with it, besides the scandal 
of your not being a Catholic. And why am I to see my 
girl’s heart broken and her young days withered when 
she might have been a good, honest man’s wife? You 
have been wrong, sir, and 1 wish to God I had never 
seen your false, deceiving face within my doors.” 

“ Father ! ” exclaimed Noel, starting up, ‘‘ you wrong 
him and me both dreadfully by these words. If he had 
wished to deceive you, could he not have gone away and 
told you nothing ? Could he not even have asked me to 
go with him? ” 

“ Tudieu ! thou shameless minx ! Wouldst thou have 


90 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


gone?’’ exclaimed Privas, starting up as if to strike 
her. 

“Yes, father, I doubt I should,” replied Noel, with 
perfect simplicity. “He is an honorable gentleman, 
whose word I trust; and if Pere Maurel would not marry 
us, we could have been married in Paris.” 

“Caspe! thou brazen-faced good-for-naught ! thou’st 
learnt thy lesson like a parrot ! Suppose he had taken 
thee in, for which he is naught too good, and it had been 
no marriage at all ? A fine sight thou would be, with 
thy good name gone, and thy father’s gray hairs dis- 
graced forever ! ” 

“It could not have been so, father,” said Noel, not 
moved from her calm, though large tears had gathered 
in her beautiful, pathetic eyes. “ He would never have 
done that wicked thing, because he is a good man, and to 
be trusted in all things.” 

“ And now, pray, sir, if I may be so bold as to speak 
about my own child, what do you propose to do? ” said 
Privas aggressively to Morland. 

“ I have told you. I mean to go straight to London 
to see my father, and as soon as I have done so, and 
shown my picture, to coma back for my wife,” replied 
Leopold, with a far difierent look at Noel at the last 
words. 

“ Indeed ! And what is she to do meanwhile? ” 

“ Will she not stay here, as usual, making you happy 
and doing her duties at home? ” 

“ Caspitello ! No, indeed ! ” shouted the angry man. 
“I will not have the false, thankless minx going about 


IN THE CAMAUGUE. 


91 


the house like a soft-footed cat, while she is breaking our 
hearts ! If she chooses to abide by her foolish maggots 
and marry out of the Church, she shall go to her cousin, 
the Superior of the convent at Aigues Mortes, and live 
on bread and water. If after that she chooses to be wise 
and turn over a new leaf, and marry Rambert, like an 
obedient, good child, she shall have her father’s blessing, 
and begin the world with the benediction also of God.’’ 

As he said these words, Privas got himself out of his 
chair and strode away into the orchard, where his loud 
voice was soon heard, chiding and giving orders to the 
farm men. 

Morland seemed then, and only then, to waken from 
the kind of dream into which he had sunk. The harsh, 
fierce, lowering face of Privas, his uncontrolled voice, 
and the fury into which he had allowed himself to be 
lashed by passion, were all separate ingredients in the 
pain Morland had felt, and the diflSculty of restraining 
himself from saying, Man, — or rather, wolfish brute ! — 
keep your daughter to yourself, and do what you please 
with her ! ” His soft, pleasure-loving nature, refined 
by its own softness full as much as by careful culture, 
had so revolted from these lower aspects of life, to which 
he was unaccustomed, except on their picturesque surface, 
that an absolute loathing seized him at the idea of 
this savage Provencal being connected with him by any 
ties whatever. Flirting laughingly in the sunshine, and 
caressing the oval cheeks and brown hands of a round- 
limbed girl, is a far different pastime to uniting yourself 
to the same girl’s abhorrent relations, and taking their 


92 


nr THE CAMARGUE. 


coarse, jarring life into your own. So abhorrent to his 
quivering sensations, in fact, were the gestures and whole 
bearing of this garlic-eating southern boor, that Leopold 
felt a kind of bound at his heart, when the last words of 
Privas seemed to bring him a possibility of release. And 
as this craven joy shot through his feeble heart, he 
looked up and saw Noel, like a Greek colored statue, 
standing with her twisted flag basket and golden cocoons 
in her hands, and both hands and head drooping as if 
struck to the heart by her father’s words. A more 
touching or more exquisite picture could not be imagined, 
and some chivalrous blood was roused in Morland at the 
sight. He went across the room to Noel, and took one 
of her hands. 

‘‘Look up at me, sweet; do not be so unhappy. I 
dare say your father was only angry, and he wdll not 
really do what he says.” 

Noel looked up and fixed her large, touching eyes 
upon him. “ I was the most afraid of your minding it,” 
she said, in a low voice. “ I know he is angry, but that 
cannot make me unlove you.” 

“My own one! I trust not, and it can never make 
me unlove you, the sweetest bird that ever sang in a 
green tree ! But listen to me, darling. You have not 
yet said anything to your grandmother, have you? ” 

“ I have not had time. I was going to tell her when 
she called me ; and even she looked scared at my father's 
way this morning. Oh, he is very terrible when he is 
angry ! The men of our country are so wild and fierce, 
like the beasts and the untamed horses of the toradous. 


Z2V THE CAMARGUE. 


93 


I could never love any of them as I love you — your 
voice is always gentle and sweet, and your eyes look so 
kin*’^ 

Leopold gently drew her to lean upon him, and, lifting 
up her head, kissed her eyes softly, and then said, ‘‘I 
wish you would go now. Birdie, and try to make your 
grandmother take your part, and tell her distinctly both 
what your father says, and how you feel about it yourself. 
Perhaps she would then come and have a talk with me, 
which I should like much better than trying to convince 
your father.’’ 

‘‘ I will,” said Noel, but there is something I should 
like to do much better.” 

What is that, muscadelo ? ” 

‘^To go to Les Stes. Maries,” said Noel. ‘‘You will 
laugh at me, because you do not believe yet what the 
saints can do. But no one goes there without getting 
some good. Old Zette got her son home, who had been 
lost for ever so long on the Tangerine coast. She put 
up a silver boat when he came back all tattered and 
wounded. And Manou and Larette were married after 
all, though their Withers said they would rather see them 
both dead. Larette went with bare feet all the way to 
Les Saintes, and Manou made a vow; and the silver 
double heart they gave is nearly the first thing you see 
in the lower chapel. I should like to go to Les Saintes 
and ask them to help us.” 

“ The great day is next week, is it not ? ” said Leopold, 
caressing her pretty head. “Suppose you ask your 


94 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


grandmother to go with you, Birdie? I think it is a 
very good idea.” 

And then I could see Pere Maurel. I think he 
will certainly be there. I know grandmother would 
like me to do that,” said Noel, a little as if the pleasure 
to herself would be a divided one. “ But I am glad you 
wish me to go. ‘‘Oh,” she exclaimed suddenly, clasp- 
ing his shoulder with both hands, in the true, pretty, 
and most feminine way of imploring, “would you go 
and ask the saints yourself, and then perhaps they would 
give you the grace to believe the true faith, too ? And 
then no one could have anything to say Would you? ” 

“My sweet one! I have no objection to the saints,” 
replied Leopold, laughingly; “but as to becoming a 
Catholic, my child, what do you suppose my father and 
all my sisters would say ? It will be hard work enough 
to them to swallow my little Papist wife, without choking 
them altogether with Bomanizing myself. Though, as 
far as that goes, it isn’t altogether out of fashion just 
now, and artists always make themselves pretty free 
about religion. But you go to your grandmother. Birdie, 
and speak to her about all of it together.” 

He lifted her face for one more long, earnest kiss, and 
then Noel, with soft color called into her cheeks, took 
up her basket and went away, while Leopold swung him- 
self upstairs to consult his “ Conscience ” once more. 


m THE CAMAROUE. 


95 


CHAPTER IX. 

RAMBERT AGAIN. 

The earliest streaks of early dawn were barring the 
pure opal sky with rose, and the scarcely heaving sea 
appeared illimitable in its exquisite morning blue. The 
sand-plains of the Camargue looked almost as boundless, 
as the first sun-rays turned their wastes into a sheet of 
silver, sparkling with its minute mica fragments as if it 
had been sown with seed-diamond. The birds were 
abroad on the huge stagnant pools, swimming, diving, 
dressing their feathers, leading out their young broods. 
The Nile ibis plumed itself, as much at home as on the 
rocks above Philae; the flamingo glanced through the 
reeds like a living flame; stately herons, ignorant of 
hawks, smoothed their beautiful feathers or meditated 
peacefully on one leg ; cranes and wild ducks of many 
kinds scuttled and cackled noisily, as they washed and 
dived with the frantic vigor peculiar to their race ; and 
red-stockinged chevaliers looked like the College of Car- 
dinals going to the Consulta, as they gravely promenaded 
the flat shore in a row. Nothing but a salt-water bird 
could long have breathed such an atmosphere as that in 
health, for the miasma of those Camargue pools is one of 
the most deadly out of the tropics. At work beside the 


96 


JJV’ THE CAMARGUE, 


long, shallow saltpans, or now and then looking out from 
the huts in which they lived, or rather just managed to 
exist, the salt-gatherers appeared here and there, like 
wasted ghosts, haunting the circle’’ apportioned to them 
for their sins in life, and working out their bitter meas- 
ure of penitential purification. Their sunken eyes looked 
preternaturally large, their hair had the lanky uncome- 
liness peculiar to the hair of sick persons, their color was 
like old parchment, and their clothes hung on them as if 
on wooden frames. Even the customs officers of the dis- 
trict (douaniers), appointed to watch the salt-making and 
the coast, were continually changed, for to be stationed 
on the Camargue coast for any length of time was equiv- 
alent to a sentence of lingering death. There is one, now, 
just come out of his station, and looking over the salt 
plain, shading his eyes with his hand. His wife has 
been stricken with the marsh fever, and he is anxiously 
looking abroad for some messenger to send for the doctor 
from St. Gilles. His practised eye, however, discerns 
something moving across the plain, which he supposes 
may do as well as the doctor. Far away as the eye can 
reach appears some vast moving body, like cavalry on 
the march. At first it is white, then dimly colored, then 
glancing and moving restlessly in the rays of the sun. 
Then it first becomes certain that a vast herd of horses 
and cattle were on the march, and they soon began to 
sweep before the anxious douanier’s eyes. First came a 
small herd of large, handsome mules, many of whom had 
their hind legs hobbled slightly, to prevent their kicking 
and laming their companions. They passed along, noisily 


J.V THE camargue: 


97 


braying, and biting as only mules can do, and occasion- 
ally making a rush forwards or sideways to lash out with 
one fore foot, exactly like huge cats in chase of a mouse. 
Next to this docile and amiable party came about a hun- 
dred and fifty small horses, chiefly white, with a few 
gray and blue roans, with sweeping manes and tails, 
which they flicked with a loud, whistling noise like 
gigantic whips. These little, wild Camargue horses, 
bred from the Arabs brought into Provence by the Sara- 
cens, are many of them exceedingly beautiful, with small, 
straight heads, very fine ears, high crests, and tails well 
set on, and with legs as hard and sinewy as those of a 
Highland deer. These aigues are mastered with the 
utmost difficulty by constant companionship with their 
owners, who can never be quite sure that they will not 
roll over and over, crushing and bruising their riders to 
death ; after which feat they gallop off* madly into the 
farther wilds, among the network of pools and dwarf 
thickets of the Lower Camargue, and return to their 
primitive, tameless state. Very severe bits and cruel 
spurs nearly a foot long are used by the cattle-guards 
when riding them, for, like the cattle-herds of the Pam- 
pas, the Camargascans will never go on foot. Men, 
women, and children, one and all, seem to be born on 
horseback. 

After the drove of cavales^ who formed studies of the 
most exquisite beauty for horse-lovers, followed the oxen 
and other cattle, which made up the substance and staple 
of this moving host. Then passed by — to such as had 
eyes to discern — that peculiar pastoral idyll of moving 


98 


m TBE CAMARGUE. 


herds which must have begun the world’s march from 
Babel, as well as that of our own white race from the 
Hindu Koosh; and which has idealized the -poetry of 
sacrifice and pastoral life through all the known mythol- 
ogies. First came the troop of wild, fierce, long-haired 
kine, whom it was almost death to attempt to milk, and 
-whose office was chiefly restricted to furnishing the herd 
with calves. These cows were of all shades of black 
and gray, with a variety of fawn with black ears. The 
oxen, the bellmen to the troop, were also the wisest and 
most self-controlled of the company. They walked up 
and down, and round the drove, exactly like sheep-dogs, 
keeping the kine and calves in some sort of shape and 
order, and preventing the stragglers after wild rosemary, 
tamarisk, broom, and aster, from straying altogether out 
of sight. These bell-oxen, or dondaires^ are thoroughly 
trained, and exhibit the most extraordinary sagacity in 
their work and affection to their owners. Lastly 
tramped the bulls and bullocks, the terrible lords and 
lordlings of the herd, whose size, strength, and ferocious 
bearing was enough to make any but a Camargascan 
herdman tremble. Among these hairy-breasted, wide- 
horned, and black-muzzled chiefs, some friends of ours 
could be discerned. Oriflamme, his bell tied round his 
neck with a new scarlet scarf ; Les Rochers, marching as 
usual sullenly apart, with his tail wildly lashing, and a 
bar of wood firmly wired to his horns, and with his hind 
legs loosely hobbled, were easily distinguished from the 
rest ; and behind Les Rochers, accompanied by two great 
brindled dogs, rode another of our familiar friends. 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


99 


Rambert was mounted on Bayard, and though the herd- 
man wore his usual wolfskin cape and broad grass hat, his 
hair and beard had been trimmed, his linen suit was spot- 
lessly clean, and his long, cruel spurs were clasped round 
a handsome pair of new untanned boots, which came up 
to the knee. Bayard, too, had a new bridle, with long 
scarlet loops at the ears ; and the wild herdman presented 
altogether a soldierlike, brightened aspect, which made 
his dark face and tall figure pleasant to the eye. As he 
rode along, directing his dogs, and watching the progress 
of the herd, Rambert saw the customs officer beckoning 
to him, and touching Bayard with the end of the bridle, 
the fiery aigue brought him quickly to his side. 

“ Is anything the matter, Pipet? Any one carrying 
off* the salt-squares ? ’’ 

‘‘No, Rambert. I wish it were that, for then there 
would be a quick remedy. Mariette is ill with the 
marsh fever. I suppose she was out too late last week 
gathering up the linen. Will you come in and look at 
her for a minute? ’’ 

Rambert was well known to have cured a good many of 
the marsh fever. He most always carried about with him 
a bitter powder which, made into tisane, cut off* the fits, 
or brought the patient through by intense perspiration ; 
and when he heard of Pipet’s trouble, he signed to the 
two lads behind him and to the dogs to go forward and 
stop the herd, when the faithful dondaires stood in front 
of them, like the perfectly appointed grooms at the heads 
of the leaders in a four-in-hand drag, thus reducing the 
whole moving machinery to a passive state. Then Ram- 


100 


J2V' TRE CAMARGUE, 


bert sprang off his horse, leaving it loose to graze, and 
went into the wretched little station. He found Mariette 
in a hot fit of the fever, gradually losing her self-control 
and becoming delirious, so that even while he was there 
the poor woman drifted away into unknown circumstances 
and vague talk, crying out in a shrill, high voice that 
the station was loosened from the piles and was floating 
out to sea, while nobody would fetch Pipet, nor lend 
them a stout rope. 

Kambert’s face, as he bent over the poor, wasted 
woman, became so soft and tender — the tenderness of 
a great heart — that if Noel had seen him then, she 
could not have been blind to his true w'orth. She must 
have been able to weigh the value of the pure gold 
against that of the tinsel alloy. No one saw him, 
however, but Pipet, whose weary mind and body — for 
he had been up all night — seemed refreshed by the 
sympathy of his helpful friend. Rambert felt the sick 
woman’s pulse, and then, asking for a cup of water, he 
dropped into it some coarse whitish powder from a box 
he pulled out of his pouch ; and, after waiting till the 
water had completely absorbed it, he gave her the 
mixture to drink. 

Mariette feebly strove to make the sign of the cross 
with her thin hand, in which her husband helped her, 
and Rambert joined, and lifting up her eyes, with a 
silent invocation, to les bonnes saintes,” she drank 
off the bitter draught. Rambert hastily filled it again, 
and, dropping a second portion of powder into it, bade 
Pipet cover it with a plate, and put it aside to be given 


IK THE CAMARGUE. 


101 


in the afternoon. He also insisted that a cup of milk, 
•with a spoonful of lemon-juice, should be given to the 
sick woman continually, and then, replacing his precious 
box in his pouch, he nodded to the grateful patient, 
telling her he would come again before long, and went 
out with Pipet, who thanked him with tears in his eyes. 

‘•You have no wife, Eambert, and you scarcely know 
what it is to have her lying there like that; but if 
poor Mariette gets well, there is nothing I won’t do for 
you that a poor douanier can compass, short of letting 
you take away that cartload of salt. But if you like to 
accept a few blocks now, on my own account, you are 
kindly welcome, and I should be glad and proud to give 
it” 

“Well, I will take one square, and thank you very 
kindly,” replied Rambert. “ Some of my beasts are 
in great want of it, and I am taking them all down 
beyond Les Stes. Maries, where the ferrade is to be 
held.” 

“The ferrade is to be there, is it? That is on 
account of the feast, I suppose? Mariette has been 
looking forward to that for I cannot say how long. 
She was to go with Paquette Privas and the Test from 
Cabridelle.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Rambert, with a long breath. “ She 
was to go with them, was she? Poor woman! she 
will not be able to get about so soon, I fear ; but one 
never knows how soon a woman can pluck up for what 
she wants ! Have you — have you seen anything of 
them lately at the farm ? ” 


102 


IN THE C AM ARGUE . 


“No, I have been tied here by the leg — or rather 
both legs. But I heard some news from there, though, 
yesterday, from their old shepherd, Manicou.” 

“News?’’ repeated Rambert, who had just swung 
himself on to his saddle, and sharply reined back his 
horse so suddenly that the fiery animal reared nearly 
upright in the air, which did not in the least disturb his 
rider’s position, or his fixed look at Pipet. 

“ Well, I’ve heard,” said the douanier, reluctantly, 
for he instinctively felt that Rambert had some attrac- 
tion to Cabridelle, — “I did hear that Privas’ daughter 
was about a good deal with one of them foreign gentry 
that are lodging there, — that one with a yellow beard 
and hair, and a woman’s face. More fool Privas to let 
them take root like that, I say ! ” 

He looked up almost fearfully into Rambert’s face, 
for an absolute silence and stillness seemed to reign in 
the air. The cattle-herd was sitting like a statue on 
his horse, scarcely seeming to breathe. Suddenly his 
great dark eyes dilated with red fire, his bronzed face 
grew paler, his vast chest heaved with a convulsive 
movement, and uttering sharply, in his mighty voice, 
the Provengal oath, “ Tudieu ! let him take care!” he 
dashed his spurs into Bayard’s sides, and bounded 
away like an avenging giant across the plain, leaving 
the mild Mentonnais * douanier scared at the sudden 
explosion. 

Rambert rushed along over stock and stone, letting 
his fiery horse gallop at its utmost speed, making a sign 


♦ Native of Mentone. 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


103 


to the herdmen to follow at their usual pace, but 
apparently not able at present to return to his normal 
state of cattle-guard which half an hour ago he was 
pursuing so happily. Half an hour ago this gnawing 
serpent, this burning flame, had not clutched at his 
heart, driving him to madness. Yes, he felt there was 
something; his heart had seemed to wander round 
and round Cabridelle, like a faithful watch-dog scenting 
and sniflSng strange footsteps. This magnetic chain 
invariably links the lover and his beloved, even if he is 
not loved in return. Rambert had, as it were, breathed 
the Englishman’s presence in the air ; he had felt that 
there was more in Noel’s rejection of him, and in what 
Privas had told him of her absolute certainty about her 
own mind, than the words had said which had weighed 
so heavily, though without conscious reason, upon his 
heart and spirits. The preparations for the ferrade^ 
and consultations and arrangements about it with his 
owners and neighbors, had, of course, diverted his mind, 
and strained it in other directions, as must happen with 
men in their various callings. For, happily for them, 
love, which is woman’s chief calling and interest, is only 
one of the multiplied occupations of men. And now 
Pipet’s words had brought the two magnetic currents, 
positive and negative, in contact, and the explosion had 
rent the air. 

While Rambert was galloping, a whole lifetime of 
thoughts seemed to flash through and through his 
mind. Should he kill this foreigner who had stolen 
in like a mountain cat, to carry off his beautiful singing- 


104 


ijsr THE camaugue. 


bird? Should he reproach her with her disdain and her 
ingratitude to his love and the home he had been so 
carefully preparing for her, and then should he kill the 
man before her face ? He seemed, in the vivid pictur- 
ing of strong passion, to act it all out. He saw himself 
before those two, — the Englishman and Noel, — and he 
heard the indignant ring of his own voice and words. 
He saw the tall, fair man fall at his feet, and then he 
himself rushed at Noel, caught her in his arms, and 
kissed her frantically, even while she struggled from him 
and looked at him with an abhorrence for which she had 
no words. He did not care the least for this. It 
seemed to him that he had seized her in his arms and 
clasped her to him with all his force, and kissed her 
sweet lips once, whether she would or no. This thought 
gave him a sort of fierce joy, which was almost akin to 
the wildest hate. 

Or should he kill himself? Should he go and re- 
proach her, as in his former inward drama, for her 
thankless scorn and rejection of an honest, true love, 
and then should he kill himself before her, so that his 
death-image should always haunt her life till her dying 
day ? Or, before dealing the last deadly stroke to his 
own life, should he stab her to the heart, and thus force 
her to go with him to another world, though she scorned 
his companionship in this one ? Somehow or other, this 
horrible injustice should be horribly punished; and as 
Rambert flew along the level sands, unconscious of the 
burning heat, every evil passion seemed to be churned 
up in his mind, and to stir up his soul to the bitterest 


JxV THE CAM ARGUE, 


105 


thirst for revenge. But at last his gallop came to an 
end, and as he reined up Bayard, covered with foam, 
Kambert found himself in one of the wildest spots of the 
neighborhood. Before him lay a considerable wood of 
the Carmague dwarf oaks, which are so small and low 
that it might have been a fairy wood, and underneath 
this miniature forest was a thick growth of stunted 
broom and lavender. In this grove, upon a pile of very 
picturesque rocks, torn in some primeval age by the 
primeval Rhone from the Alps, was perched a ruined 
hermitage, the dwelling of one of the numerous hermits 
of the Merovingian era in France, when the missionary 
spirit, that had been driven from the courts and capitals 
of France by their vices, took refuge in the wild forests 
and wildernesses of the provinces. The rude carving on 
the broken arch of the belfry turret was still remaining, 
for in that sun-baked region the decay of damp is 
unknown, and even ruins are preserved, like mummies, 
without apparent lessening or change. Within the her- 
mitage chapel a crucifix had been rudely carved in the 
wall stones, and, though worn and smoothed by time, 
the Figure was still there, wearing in the set and droop 
of the head an expression of willing suffering that might 
win a prayer even from the most careless passer-by. 

Rambert left his panting horse free to browse upon 
the aromatic shrubs, and threw himself down on the 
heap of stones in front of the ruin. At first he buried 
his face in his hands, giving himself up to the gloomi- 
est thoughts, — the gloom which succeeds the fierce 
glow of passion, as piles of cinders and ashes are the 


106 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


result of a blasting-furnace in full glow. Then he 
looked up wearily, and his eyes fell upon the Figure on 
the cross, at first, as on any other object, then as if it 
suggested thoughts to his mind. 

The cattle-guard was profoundly ignorant. He had 
been, of course, baptized, and before he was eight years 
old had been taken to the Cure of St. Chamas to make 
his first confession, for which he had been chiefly in- 
structed by answering a set form of questions by set 
words of answer, most of which he did not understand. 
The cure was a fairly good old man, of a by-gone 
day, very particular in requiring that the children 
should all make their first confession after they were 
seven, and their first communion before they were 
twelve years old, and that the boys should be prepared 
for these duties by himself. The girls, who were handed 
over to some convent of sisters, fared a good deal better ; 
for women only, as a rule, understand and can put 
themselves in communication with children’s minds. 
When Rambert had been prepared for his first confes- 
sion, he had been taken to one of the side chapels of 
the parish church, where he was bidden to sit on a low 
bench with other boys of his own age, some of whom 
had marbles, some tops, some dragees and pralines^ in 
their pockets or hands. The cur^ had sat in front of 
the bench, which of course had its back to the altar, 
with a cane in one hand and his snuff-box in the other ; 
but as he was very blind, and extremely kind-hearted, 
the cane was seldom used, while the snuff-box was in 
constant requisition. The questions had been put round 


m THE CAMARGUE, 


107 


to each boy, and each boy had made the answer, rattling 
it off, as'far as his powers of memory carried him, at a 
racing-pace, getting louder towards the end. As the 
last word was successfully shouted out, the whole bench 
of boys showed all their white teeth in a grin of satis- 
faction, and the exulting candidate instantly subsided 
upon the fingering of his marbles, or playing at surrep- 
titious cat’s-cradle, while the ‘‘goodies’’ went the gen- 
eral round. 

The examination, or preparation, for the first com- 
munion, at twelve years old, though made of course with 
more care and watchfulness, was pretty much of the 
same character^. Rambert was then older, more thought- 
ful and reasoning, and, it must be added, more impa- 
tient of control, and more doggedly resolved to carry 
out his own wishes. As he had been respectably born, and 
had relations well to do in St. Chamas and at Arles, the 
cure had offered to send him to college, and bring him 
forward for the priesthood, talking to him a little him- 
self about the vocation to the altar, and the supreme of- 
fering to God of the whole future life. Rambert, in 
answer, had asked one or two questions with the most 
naive audacity of M. le Cure himself. 

First, “ What sort of place was college ? ” 

Secondly, “ Did priests ever have horses of their own, 
and ride? ” 

Being told that college was a school for big boys and 
young men ; and that horses and riding were quite out 
of the question for priests, except when they were 
occasionally made use of in mountainous countries and 


108 


IK THE CAMARGUE. 


for long distances, Rambert instantly decided against 
having anything to do with such a calling. He did 
exert himself so far as to master all the communion 
questions, and, with great gravity and propriety of de- 
meanor, made his first communion. A genuine feeling 
of awe then possessed him at the reality of the sacra- 
ment, and, as far as he knew, he did bis best to receive 
it worthily, while acknowledging that he was most un- 
worthy. As far as he hnew^ for the poor boy was 
lamentably ignorant of the life, and words, and any real 
knowledge of Him who was hidden in the sacrament, 
and the mere repetition of certain prayers and religious 
formulas became barren of any fruit, while the awe was 
too uncomfortable a thing to be risked oftener than it 
could possibly be helped. Like so many more of his 
countrymen, therefore, Rambert had bidden farewell to 
his religion at that stage, casting ofi* its outer practice 
as a shell, to be taken up again and put on, it might be, 
in some future time of great need and trouble, or at the 
approach of death ; but never to be the light and law 
of his path, or the rod and staff of his lifelong journey. 
His natural reason urged him to be honest and clean-liv- 
ing; and his conscience dimly suggested to him neither 
to wrong his employers, nor to injure their property ; 
and his own natural characteristics made him more mer- 
ciful and forbearing than many of his comrades. He 
had first served a short time in the army, and then had 
chosen to return to his native plains, and take service 
with a large owner of horses and cattle. His enormous 
strength and agility, his hardy and temperate habits, and 


/xV THE C^iMARGUE. 


109 


his love of the animals he tended, made him famous in 
the Camargue; and more than one pretty farmer’s 
daughter would gladly have been chosen to be his wife, 
and his companion or help in his toilsome occupation. 
But it was a calling which tended to roughen and harden 
Rambert’s natural qualities, instead of bending them to 
softer influences ; and he had been so absorbed in his 
struggles and victories with the fierce animals under his 
charge, that no room was left for any desire for a pleas- 
ant home and woman’s companionship, which would have 
made him a changed man. Once only, in his wild, tur- 
bulent, hurrying life, he had been struck to the heart, 
and that was when he had, one morning of the past 
year, seen Noel at the outer farm-well, drawing water 
for the kids that were too young to be turned out. As 
the brown, thirsty man, and more thirsty, fiery gray 
horse had come up to the well, Noel, like Rebecca, had 
hasted” and lowered her pitcher, and given them both 
to drink. The grace and the smile and kindly glance 
of the clear young face and shady eyes had burst upon 
Rambert as a direct vision from heaven. All his better 
thoughts and softer feelings were then brought to the 
surface, all his truthful, generous uprightness had been 
stirred, together with that mercifulness and tenderness 
for the weak, which are a brave man’s essential charac- 
teristics. Noel might have done anything with him, 
might have raised him to any loving height ; deepened 
the foundations of his faith, and widened his brotherly 
relations with all men. But she had wandered away 
after a phantom light, and both lost herself and the soul 


110 


IIT THE CAM ARGUE. 


which had been given to her to reverence and lead her 
out of herself. No woman can tell the number and va- 
riety of consequences which may close round one of her 
rash acts. No woman can tell how, in making choice 
of a false love instead of a true, she may drag down 
other souls besides her own, and make them also eat the 
Dead Sea fruit she has chosen for her own portion. 

Rambert was at this moment in a mood which even 
his own worst enemy, had he one, might pity. His dark 
face was the symbol of his mind, through which a driving 
wreck of storm and darkness raged. Why was every 
one else to be happy, while he was given up to failure 
and despair ? Why was another man’s tree to bear a 
harvest of ripe lemons, while from his, so long watched 
and pruned and nourished, came only the little barren 
blights which had now fallen on the ground ? Who was 
this Englishman, that he was to drink all the best vintage, 
while even a drop was grudged to one who had watched 
the ripening of the grapes ? Anyhow, he should not long 
be walking there in his pride and beauty, with his yellow 
beard like unwound silk. A puppet, a doll, which he 
could chuck into the Rhone with one lift of his hand ! 
Instinctively he raised his head proudly and looked 
up, and as he did so his eyes met the worn, drooping 
Figure on the broken cross. Rambert started, as if he 
had never seen a crucifix before, and certainly it was 
long since that once familiar image had met his eyes. 
The pierced hands, the pierced feet, the wounded side, 
then came confusedly to his mind, and the faith of his 
childhood seemed revived and brightened again in his 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


Ill 


memory. The love which offered, and the love which the 
offering wrought, brought back the long-disused words 
of prayer, and Rambert felt rather than said, As toe 
forgive them that trespass against us.^^ Hes knelt on 
the scanty aromatic herbage, a great softness came into 
his face, and changed it as he looked steadily at the cru- 
cifix, and he said, I have nearly forgotten. — ^ Our Fa- 
ther, Who art in heaven — forgive us our trespasses — 
as we forgive ’ — Can I ? — ^ As we forgive them that 
trespass against us/ 


112 


JJV THE CAMARGUE. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE MORLANDS IN GENERAL. 

The breakfast-table was laid in a pleasant, roomy 
house in Montagu Square, and the very shining of the 
bright silver and china, and the snowy, speckless cloth, 
with the pretty chased kettle and lamp, told of the com- 
fortable condition of the inmates of the house. A pile of 
letters lay beside the freshly cut and ironed ‘‘ Times, but 
no one was in the room, which was hung with a few good 
modern pictures, of recognized value. Presently the 
pattering of a dog’s feet was heard on the floor- cloth outside 
and a white, rough terrier, with upright ears, and a few 
iron-gray marks, that made him look like a gigantic flint, 
trotted briskly into the room, followed by a slight girl, 
rather above the middle height, with wonderful green-gray 
eyes. 

‘‘No one down, Juan ! What can they all be doing 
this morning? I wonder if the tea is made? ” 

She peeped into the teapot, and found that the excel- 
lent Stone had not failed in his duties, whatever his bet- 
ters had to say for themselves. The girl then lightly 
turned over the pile of correspondence to see if there were 
anything for her, while Juan sprang into a cane chair 
which stood near the large one at the bottom of the table, 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


113 


and wagged his short, rough tail consideratively, as if 
willing to do his best towards working out the domestic 
problems. Suddenly the girl started, and with a slight 
flush said, ‘‘ Ju ! here’s a letter from your master.” At 
which Juan jumped down from his chair with a short 
bark, and, trotting to her, looked up beseechingly in her 
face. She held the letter towards him with eyes in 
which a wonderful light shone, and while Juan industri- 
ously licked the letter she softly stroked his rough head. 
Just then steps were heard in the hall, and a middle-aged, 
but well-preserved, handsome man and two more girls 
came into the room. The holder of the letter swiftly 
threw it back on the heap, her face changed like a house- 
front when the blinds are suddenly let down, and she 
said, “ Good-morning, Uncle Morland. What will you 
give me for good news ? A letter from France, which 
Juan has been licking all over.” 

‘‘From France, hey? It’s nearly time. Good-morn- 
ing, Car. Good old Ju ! bring me your master’s letter.” 

J uan duly carried the foreign letter to the other end 
of the table, and the elder of the girls who had come in 
with her father began to pour out the tea. She whom 
he had called Car meanwhile sat down beside her uncle, 
and every now and then furtively glanced at him as he 
read. While the others, including a third very pretty 
little girl of ten and a fine boy of seven, were all engaged 
with their choice between tea or cofiee, and rolls or toast, 
Car had already discerned the darkening of Mr. Mor- 
land’s face, and his hasty, irritated folding up the letter 
and throwing it on the table. 


114 


JJV" THE CAMARGUE. 


Is that from Leo, did you say, Car? Papa, is there 
good news of his picture ? How are they, and are they 
coming home? ’’ asked the tea-maker, putting her pleas- 
ant, sensible face on one side the kettle and lamp. 

It is from Leo. There is good news, as far as his 
own word goes, of his picture. They talk of coming 
home in a fortnight.’’ 

‘^Father, there is something wrong,” said Anne, the 
tea-maker. Leo is not ill, is he ? ” 

^•No, dearie, not ill in body; very sick in mind, ap- 
parently. You shall see his letter by and by, but I don’t 
want it all to go farther. Give me some tea, please, and 
something to eat, — dry toast and some bacon.” 

It had always been the dictum of the family in Monta- 
gu Square that if the world were known to be coming to 
an end in the afternoon, father ” would still eat his dry 
toast and bacon for breakfast, and a slight smile appeared 
on all faces except those of Car and Anne, as the bacon- 
dish and toast- rack were handed down the table. Juan 
also seemed to think that the writing of foreign letters 
and upsetting the family peace ought to be no hindrance 
to his breakfast, and accordingly he took possession again 
of the cane chair always set for him, and sat up — lolling 
against the back of it — to receive his buttered and ba- 
coned toast upon his nose. Happily for themselves, the 
great union and the pleasant, light-hearted ways of the 
Morland family had always smoothed and sweetened many 
of the rubs and scratches, inevitable in a large home party 
without a mother’s peace-giving rule. Anne, indeed, 
had done as much as lay in any daughter’s or sister’s 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


115 


power to stand in her mother’s place ; and^if it had not 
been for one secretly counter and disturbing element, she 
would have succeeded in maintaining the whole household 
in loving peace. 

The disturbing element was an orphan niece of her 
mother’s, possessed of some considerable property, whom 
Mr. Moreland had taken into his house and kind, gener- 
ous heart, for his wife’s sake. Caroline — from her birth 
called Car — Chetwynd was exactly the age of her 
cousin Anne Morland, so that they had been playfellows 
from childhood. Her wonderful eyes and hair and 
pretty ways had been the delight of the artist circle of 
evening visits (especially of men visitors) and five- 
o’clock teas, that chiefly made up the world in which the 
Morlands lived, — a world where a good deal of pleasant 
freedom and camaraderie was patent, where the general 
mixture of children upon equal terms with their elders 
was usual, and where pretty children, especially, often 
came to be looked upon and treated rather on the 
artistic than the moral side of their bringing up. 
In all sorts of society, indeed, the whole aspect of the 
general world, as far as they are concerned, is turned 
round. The children not only fetch themselves up, but 
also train or drive their parents in many ways in which 
they should not go, and the result varies according to 
the natural character of the children. The Morlands, 
with one exception, had grown up in most loving union 
and agreement; well-natured and well-mannered, wor- 
shipping their father and his profession, and affection- 
ately devoted to their sister, Queen Anne,” whom 


116 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


they treated as mother and sister all in one. In the 
case of the eldest son, Leopold, the system, as has been 
seen, had not worked so well. The habit of unselfish 
sacrifice and yielding in a thousand small daily ways 
had not formed in the man’s character as it had in the 
woman’s, and his natural faults had been allowed to 
flourish full-grown and unchecked. There was a far 
better chance for his two younger brothers, as Anne was 
partly alive to Leopold’s failure, and, though loving 
him as girls only can love the brothers whom they also 
admire, she was pretty well aware of the sandy founda- 
tion on which his principles and better qualities stood. 

But on Car Chetwynd the loose rein in Montagu 
Square had acted worst of all. Her natural character 
was not a good one; her cleverness was very great, 
and her victories and love of power had developed to 
such a degree, that it was only owing to the fine 
temper, and easy, careless laissez-aller of the family, 
that the others could have remained either blind or 
placid with her perpetual undermining and manoeu- 
vring character. Car inherited a considerable fortune 
from a cousin, and she was determined that her beauty 
and charm should add a hundredfold to its value. She 
knew that, though well placed in her uncle’s house 
for happiness and comfort, or rather for a profusion of 
comforts, she was not so well placed for making a good 
marriage; and to marry well, and to have a pleasant 
house, and a husband whose position could enable her to 
plan and rule in society to her heart’s content, was 
Car’s great ambition. She it was who had stirred up 


IN THE CAMAROUE, 


117 


Leopold’s lazy and latent ambition, and had finally 
induced him to apply himself to his father’s profes- 
sion ; and she it was who had also prevailed upon him to 
examine some unknown and unhackneyed foreign region, 
and to strive for the prizes of fame and honorable men- 
tion by obtaining good models for a certain picturesque, 
sentimentally historical painting, which would win him 
popularity with some ease. She had given Leopold 
reason to think that she might be induced to marry him 
if he became famous and was likely to make money ; and 
now her feelings may be in some degree imagined when 
she feared, and yet knew nothing of what she feared. 
Anne was to read the letter, too ; always Anne ! Do 
what she would — and it must be conceded that Car 
had had the cleverness to stir up a good deal of petty 
mischief between Anne and her father — do what she 
would, her uncle always came back to consulting Anne 
about everything of importance, while he only laughed, 
and joked, and amused himself with her. She would 
amuse him with a vengeance some day, she was thinking 
now, as she every now and then glanced out of her 
great, green-gray, heavy-lidded eyes at the letter lying 
so near her plate, so near the quick-beating nerves and 
tissues of her heart ! How she longed to read through 
that thin French envelope, and how, also, she longed to 
punish Leopold most bitterly for the sins which she 
judged him beforehand to have committed ! Let no 
man think lightly of Car Chetwynd’s tender mercies, 
when her singular and — materially — most beautiful 


118 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


eyes looked floating and liquid under their thick, curly 
lashes as they did now ! 

At last the genial, sunshiny English breakfast was 
done with, and even Car’s genius could invent no way 
of further lingering beside that well-filled French 
envelope. In fact, the envelope was gathered up with 
the rest of Mr. Morland’s papers. The very touch of it 
seemed to bring back the heavy cloud in his face. He 
called to Anne and bade her come to his painting-room 
as soon as she had seen the cook, and just nodding, 
with a ‘^by-by ! ” to Car, went out of the room, little 
knowing what a seething whirlpool he had left behind 
him. Even Juan rushed scuttling after Mr. Morland, 
and as he did so Car gave a little nod and smile as if 
some brightening idea had occurred to her. She called 
the boy Caryl to her for his Latin, which she always 
persevered in teaching him, that she might study it 
herself; and the dining-room was left to the undivided 
reign of Stone, the factotum and treasure of the family. 

Anne Morland had soon ‘‘seen” the cook and given 
her simple orders for the early dinner and “ high tea” 
in which her father delighted ; and then, after adminis- 
tering a few stores, she washed her hands in the pretty 
little tapped basin contrived for her use in the store- 
room, and took her way up a few steps at the back of 
the dining-room to her father's sanctum, the painting- 
room, which to his children was a true temple of fame. 
It was a charming room, with a good light from above, 
veiled at pleasure, like an impluviurrij with striped 
canvas, and filled with beautiful, quaint old furniture 


m THE CAMAItGUE. 


119 


and accessories, given or gradually acquired from 
originally sources. One or two marqueterie chests, with 
old locks and good hinge-work; one or two capital 
carved tables, of a good time ; brackets and tall candle- 
trees ’’ bought out of old farmhouses in the west of 
England. In one corner an old carved bedstead, in 
excellent condition. Here and there quaint chairs and 
stools, vases, bowls, pitchers, cups, spoons, horns, gourds 
of many shapes, odd Valory china, banners, tufts of 
grasses, reeds, canes, and corn, were all made use of in 
the best taste, and, while scattered in profusion, were so 
disposed and preserved as to be as far as possible from 
having that littering, rubbishy character which dis- 
figures many studios. Frames, canvases, and finished 
and unfinished sketches were ranged on a kind of 
ledge running round the room, about a foot' and a half 
from the floor, and thus enabling the housemaids to 
keep the room cleansed and dustless without moving 
and perilling the pictures and drawings. In the middle 
of the room stood a double easel with the two pictures 
of the year, and, at a little distance, a second, with a 
fresh canvas, on which a subject was just sketched in. 
For Mr. Morland never allowed himself to ‘‘rust,*^ as 
he said, for a single day, and as soon as the last touch 
was given to the Academy pictures, he began afresh, 
though he never hurried himself, nor, as he often said, 
“ laid on the paint thick to save time.*’ The two show 
pictures were: (1.) ‘‘The First Violet.’’ A portrait 
of a lady idealized; a girl in faded green, leaning 
against the stem of a birch tree bursting into spring 


120 


ly THE CAMARGUE, 


foliage, apparently looking at a violet root with its 
freshly-blown flower between the broad leaves, but 
evidently dreaming a sweet day-dream about the half- 
open letter she held in her hand. In the slight, lithe, 
exquisitely poised figure, the heavy mass of wavy, dead 
chestnut hair, unspoiled by dyes or frizzle, the strange, 
weird, mocking smile and eyes, it was manifest that Car 
Chetwynd had been the painter’s ideal. (2.) ^‘The 
Last Rose.” Two people standing in a quaint, old- 
fashioned garden beside a sun-dial. One a middle-aged 
man, with hair and beard much tinged with gray, ofier- 
ing the last plucked autumn rose to a middle-aged 
woman, in a wonderful dead -leaf samite gown, whose 
still fair face was full of life-struggles, but struggles 
that also showed evidence of victory. She was looking 
up at the grave, noble face bending towards her with 
genuine surprise, but a surprise in which joy was 
dawning to brightness. The autumn sunset, the drift- 
ing crimson leaves, and the mist rising from the pool 
beyond, imaged the decline of ardent hopes and impet- 
uous joys ; but there was that in both faces which told 
that that noble man had ground for hope that his rose 
would be accepted with a feeling of trusting repose in 
his love, and that presently a sunset gleam would 
illumine those two evening lives, as it was about to 
burst forth in the sky. It was a picture full of 
meaning, painted in Mr. Morland’s best manner, and 
it had been said, at a private interview, by a well- 
known art-judge, that on this picture would rest his 
fame. 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


121 


He glanced at it now himself, with a loving, lingering 
look, as he carefully removed a morsel of fluff from one 
corner, and throwing himself down in his writing-chair, 
he said, ‘‘Read that letter, my dear ; I want to know 
what you think of it. To me it is the hardest thrust 
Leopold has given me, and they have been not a few.” 

Anne laid her hand caressingly on her father’s 
shoulder as she took the letter, and murmuring, 
“Poor, dearest father! you deserve to have children 
who give you nothing but pleasure,” she sat down, 
and opened and read the letter. 

“My very dear Father: — I much fear you 
have been uneasy about our fate, but pray do not 
worry, for there is no need. We have both intended 
writing, and I suppose have fallen into a kind of 
seesaw, both intending and both putting off, and 
ended by doing nothing. I have certainly had some 
excuse of not knowing what to say. Happily, or 
unhappily, as you may take it, I have become deeply 
attached to a Provengal girl, the only child of a 
proprietor of some wealth in this neighborhood. She 
is very young and exceedingly beautiful ; able to be 
led up to any amount of cultivation and ‘ culture,’ 
— not always the same things, — and possessing a 
character and natural qualities which are as nearly 
perfect as anything I can imagine in the shape of 
woman. I saw her first by accident, at one of the 
festivals of this strange country, — a muselade^ or 
calf-weaning, among the great droves of fierce cattle, 


122 


nr THE CAMARGUE. 


which would carry you back to the days of Homer. 
I took her face as my model for the Jeanne d’Arc, 
and I think when you see the picture you will say 
I have never yet done anything so good. I have 
felt as if this affection, as an object, had stirred me 
up to more exertion than I could ever have believed 
in otherwise. I think there is more power of work 
in me than I have been able hitherto to see. Life 
with Noel (her name is Noel Privas) would go fir 
to realize my best ideas,- and if an artist is to make 
out any real Avork he ought to live some kind ’of 
chosen ideal life. 

Of course I know that my marrying at once is out 
of the question ; but if you are kind enough to consent, 
I should like to bind myself to my little girl for next 
year, or at most to marry her in two years’ time. If it 
cannot be made possible for us to live in London, I 
would stay somewhere in the south, and send home my 
pictures, until I had stored enough honey to feed the 
hive. I should be very glad to have your answer as 
soon as possible, for of course I ought to tell her some- 
thing immediately. My picture will go off almost di- 
rectly by ‘grand vitesse,’' but I cannot leave Noel in a 
total uncertainty as to the future. 

“ With best of loves to Anne and the girls and boys, 
of course specially including Car, 

“Your affectionate son, 

“Leopold Morland. 

“ P.S. — I am sure Anne would love my little Noel.’’ 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


123 


Enclosed was a note in a small, separate cover, from 
Nasmyth : — 

‘‘ Dear Morland, — Leo has certainly fairly tumbled 
in love with this very pretty and very good little girl. Of 
course she is a Catholic, and a very simple and good one, 
and of course it is a kettle of fish. I wish we had never 
come into the neighborhood at all ; but there’s no use 
in crying over spilt milk. Privas pere is furious — 1st, 
Because he wants the girl to marry another man ; 2d, 
Because Leo is a Protestant, or, as he puts it, ^ not a 
Christian.’ I fancy the child will be wealthy, accord- 
ing to the notions of the country, which is the queerest 
and most inconceivable of any place on earth, out of a 
fairy-tale. And the girl is like a fairy, too, only a 
thorough good one. Leo is more stirred up than I ever 
knew him. I hope you will do what you can. I am 
altogether sorry about it, but the girl is so good and 
sweet, that things might, after all, have been much 
worse. 

With kindest regards, especially to Miss Morland, 
Yours faithfully, 

“ Harry Nasmyth.” 

Anne read this note with great attention, and with a 
slight consciousness at this second ‘‘especially” devoted 
to herself, put it back into the larger envelope, and re- 
turned it to her father, saying, “ Poor Leo ! He cer- 
tainly does not manage to sail in calm waters, and one 


124 


jyr THE CAMAEGUE. 


never knows with him what is going to turn up next. 
Perhaps, dear father, it would really save you a great 
deal of anxiety if he were once married.’’ 

‘‘If he were married, yes, in a possible way,” re- 
plied Morland, with irritation. “If he married prop- 
erly, — a woman able to keep herself, a w’oman whom 
we knew, and who would be a sister to you all, and one 
I should like Janet and Lettice to go out with, I should 
feel it a great burden off my shoulders. Leo wants to 
be under good petticoat government, for he is one of 
those women-men who will never be ruled by any other. 
But to go and fall in love with a mere child, — a pretty 
face, a Roman Catholic, a Provengal creature with lava 
and knives in her blood ! Deuce take it all ! it really 
passes all one’s patience to bear. And even Nasmyth — 
dear old fellow ! — seems bewitched by this French cat-a- 
mountain, and sees her with Leo’s eyes ! ” 

“ I doubt that,” said Anne, with a pretty pink tinge in 
her cheeks. “ I think Harry’s note is a sensible one, and 
looks as if he had really made a sound judgment on the 
matter.” 

“I dare say you do. Queen Anne!” replied her 
father, mischievously. “ But not joking, you are right 
about Nasmyth. He is as steady as old time, and when 
he engages himself it will be to some sensible, right- 
minded woman of his own class and position, and not a 
blackavised Bohemian fortune-teller ! ” 

“ 0 dear father, please don’t call the poor girl by 
such dreadful names ! I am sure she is nice and good, 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


125 


as well as pretty. The only thing is, what is to be 
done ? Could you — I suppose you would not like — ’’ 

“ Well, out with it. Like what ? ’’ 

Like to let them come and live here, I was going to 
say,’’ said Anne, coloring timidly. I could make her 
happy, I think ; they could take my room, and you 
should never be inconvenienced, father.” 

You are the best daughter, and the best woman, ex- 
cept one, that ever lived, Anne ! — your mother’s very 
own unselfish child. But, my dear, you have quite enough 
on your hands as it is ; and then, I think — I think it 
would not do to bring Leo’s wife here as long as Car 
is with us.” 

Mr. Morland hesitated considerably before resolving 
thus to declare his mind. 

Car ! ” exclaimed Anne, a light breaking in. Do 
you mean — ” 

mean that I have thought that she likes Leo, 
and, dear, I must say I wish it could have been so.” 

“Do you really wish that, father? I certainly do 
not!” replied Anne, speaking much more decidedly, 
especially when giving an unfavorable opinion, than she 
usually did. 

“Indeed!” said Morland, surprised, as blind men 
are when they find that clear-sighted women have pen- 
etrated the depths of character which to them are com- 
pletely veiled by velvet gloves and a pretty face. “I 
never knew that you had any diflSculty with your 
cousin.” 

“I never would allow any difficulty to be made,” 


126 


IN' THE CAMARGUE, 


replied Anne, in her true womanly dignity of goodness ; 
‘‘but she has tried to make many a one, father, and 
would, if she could, step in continually between you and 
me.’’ 

“ Well, you do astonish me ! And yet — now I think 
of it — there have been times — only 1 never like to 
judge any one, and she seems to me a mere simple, beau- 
tiful child.” 

“ You are too good, father, and I am too bad,” replied 
Anne, smiling at him ; ‘ ‘ but you must remember that all 
girls are not the same to men and to other women. Some 
of us are very like cats, — velvet paws, and claws under 
the velvet ; and the sensation of the two conveys a very 
different impression. But I should never have said any 
of this to you if you had not spoken first. Car owes you 
everything, you know, father dear, and your chivalrous 
nature would be slow to see any faults at all in a woman 
you have sheltered and loved. I should like par to 
marry very much, but I should be very, very Sorry if 
she were Leo’s wife.” 

“I am very sorry to hear all this,” said Morland, 
after a pause. “ She will have a very pretty little for- 
tune, too ; and that is not to be despised nowadays, when 
life is so much more burdensome than formerly. Well, 
well ! Anyhow, I cannot give my written consent off- 
hand to Leo’s marrying this girl,” he said, with a sharp- 
ness to which what had been said of his favorite niece 
added an edge of fiavor. “ That is quite impossible. 
He must make no engagements or promises, and you must 
write to him, Anne, very strongly on that point. I will 


JxV THE CA3IARGUE. 


127 


put in a short note, as clearly as possible conveying the 
same thing. But you must write very fully and at 
length, which I have no time to do — and kindly, though 
very decidedly. You see he does not say there is any 
positive engagement entered on, does he? ’’ 

No,’’ said Anne, hesitatingly. He does not say- it 
in the letter, but I should think he has spoken posi- 
tively to her, because you see Harry says the father is 
angry.” 

‘ ‘ A very good thing too ! I admire his wisdom. He 
wants the girl to marry a man of his own class and choos- 
ing, whose ideas will suit his own. You go and write to 
Leo all I say, — that he will never be happy with an in- 
congruous wife, and she, in the end, will never be happy 
with him. What would Joan of Arc herself do, in her 
armor, in a London drawing-room ? And this little thing, 
in her petticoat and bodice, will feel just as unsuited. It 
is very easy for Leo to fall in love, but love wants some- 
thing more than rosebuds to live on in this country. I 
tell you plainly, Anne, that I can do no more than find 
professions for Paul and Caryl, and Leo has already 
more than his full share. I have no idea of leaving my 
daughters to eat their hearts out in London lodgings, and 
you girls shall all be made comfortable — in moderation — 
when I am gone. Leo can make his own way perfectly 
well, and I will not give him a hope of dangling about 
here with us, with a wife and babies to be in every one’s 
way. Write your letter carefully, my dear, and tell him 
to say to Miss Noel clearly, that I can give no consent 
whatever till I have seen him and heard what he has to 


128 


J2r THE CAMARGUE. 


say. Then come and show me your letter, and I will 
put my word in. Write kindly, mind, but put it strongly 
and clearly. And, Anne — ’’ 

‘‘ Yes, dear father.” 

“ I suppose you would like to be ‘ especially ’ remem- 
bered to Nasmyth?” 

I shall send my kind regards without the especially,” 
replied Anne, turning to go away. And I think I will 
say so myself, father, in Leo’s letter.” 

“ Very well, dearie, do as you like; you will never do 
wrong. And, Anne — see about some ice, will you?” 


IJV THE CAMARGUE. 


129 


CHAPTER XL 

THE FALSE ISOLTE. 

Havino- temporarily shifted the weight of his anxie- 
ties to the shoulders of his prime minister, the painter 
had got himself well at work with his new canvas, sketch- 
ing in with masterly skill the farewell of Lancelot and 
Elaine, with the shield in her hand, when a low tap was 
heard at the door, which opened immediately afterwards, 
and Car Chetwynd advanced her wonderful head, saying, 
“ May I come in, uncle, for a minute? ’’ 

There was a trifle less than usual of hearty response in 
norland’s reply, — “Yes, my dear, of course,” which 
slight atmospheric change Car instantly read, and laid 
with unerring sagacity to its true cause. 

“I am going out with Caryl, uncle, and we want to 
take Juan. May we go to the Kensington Gardens? ” 

“ You two alone ? Can’t Paul go ? ” 

“Yes, uncle, if you like. But at this time of day I 
should think Caryl’s sublime protection would be 
enough.” 

“Take Paul too. What are you going for, besides 
the walk?” Morland would not have asked this of his 
own girls, but he always had some dim perception that 
Car had purposes in her walks. 

“I feel restless,. uncle; I cannot settle to anything.” 


130 


7xV THE CAMARGUE. 


‘‘ What is it, mj dear? Is anything the matter? 

Yes, uncle. Never mind — no, I canH tell you! 
It will settle itself, I dare say.” And Car sat down on 
the ‘‘throne” steps, just where she knew that a slant- 
ing sheaf of sunbeams would fall on her hair and turn 
its glorious coils to red gold. Her uncle had an abso- 
lute passion for color, and as he looked at her slight, 
but exquisite figure, like a wood-nymph or na'iad, whose 
every movement showed some new grace ; her dress, long 
and flowing, always trimmed in some quiet, perfect way 
with old lace and quaintly-shaped clasps ; her face lean- 
ing on one hand, her heavy, fringed lids showing the 
liquid light below them, and her pale cheeks, with the 
traces on them of tears, — he could not help feeling 
tenderly drawn towards her, and bitterly angry with Leo 
for missing the wife whom he had always desired for his 
son. 

“ My little one ! ” he said, with almost his son’s sweet- 
ness of voice. “ Cheer up. Car ! I think I know what 
has unsettled you, — that abominable French letter, 
eh?” 

Car’s head bent a little lower as she murmured some 
inarticulate words, and allowed two large tears to flow 
slowly just on to her cheeks. 

“My dear child, it is really enough to make a man 
swear to see such folly I But I say again. Car, cheer 
up ! Many a man has made a fool of himself for a 
while, and come out of it harmless. I dare say this girl’s 
people — ” 

“Then there is a girl ? ” asked Car, in the lowest of 


ly THE CAMARGUE. 


131 


her sweet tones. “ I knew there was ; but Anne would 
not tell me a word. She is not kind to me, I think.’’ 

‘‘Oh, w'ell, well! Nonsense, my dear! Anne saw 
Leo’s letter in confidence, you know; but there is no 
harm in your knowing also in confidence that he wants 
to marry a girl out there ; at least he thinks he does ; but 
a man is so easily led on, and I feel sure he has fallen 
into a trap. An artful, sly puss of a French girl, you 
know, and some more artful old father, who thinks Leo 
and Nasmyth a couple of English milords with princely 
fortunes. That’s about what it all is, I fancy. I have 
made.Anne write to Leo to tell him I refuse my consent 
till he comes home, and that the sooner be comes the 
better.” 

“ Poor girl ! ” said Car, with the prettiest air of pity. 
“But perhaps he is really attached to her, uncle, and 
it would be a pity to spoil such a complete romance. Is 
she a Provencal nobleman’s daughter, — some grand 
seigneur with a chateau, whose ancestors lived at good 
King Rene’s court? ” 

“Grand seigneur, indeed! No; that would be just 
bearable. Her father is a farmer, and I shouldn’t be 
surprised if she washes at some spring with bare feet, as I 
remember the girls doing in the south of France. Both 
he and Nasmyth seem to think her so beautiful, that she 
must have bewitched them both with her forward tricks. 
Deuce take all those French women ! They would wile 
a fish out of the water.” 

“Poor Leo! poor fellow! Now, uncle, you really 
must not be hard upon him ! I dare say he has ^ good 


132 


m THE CAMAROUE. 


Story to tell when he comes, and you must hear it all out 
patiently, and be a good father, and come forward to the 
front with, Bless you, my children ! ’ Come, Ju, old 
man, we are going out ! 

Car, having now extracted from her indulgent uncle 
what she wanted to know, was trying to coax Juan 
away ; but the faithful dog would not stir till Morland 
said, “ Hie, Ju ! get your stick ! ’’ when he jumped down 
from his chair with a short bark of joy, rushed to a rack 
at the end of the room, and fetched thence his own 
particular short stick, and, wagging his tail as fast as it 
could move, announced that he was dressed, and ready to 
go to the world’s end. Car laid a soft little kiss on her 
uncle’s forehead, and vanished out of the room. As soon 
as she was outside the door, she bit her lip, and stamped 
her little foot fiercely on the ground, saying to herself, 
‘‘ Oh, I do wish he were here now ! I’ll find some way 
of punishing him well ! ” 


m THE CAMARQUE* 


133 


CHAPTER XIL 

‘^FAREWELL, SWEET HEART!” 

“No letter, to-day, old fellow. We had better be^ 
jogging to Les Stes. Maries, I think. A letter can be 
forwarded there, you know, in a day.” 

“I really don’t know what to do about going to Les 
Stes. Maries. Of course we must move on, but I can 
settle to nothing, Anyhow, I must finish packing my 
picture, for of course we must leave Cabridelle. Whether 
we turn northward or not, the picture-box must be taken 
to St. Chamas and go by passenger train. So, good-by, 
Jeanne d’Arc! I hope your head will be quite 
turned by the praises you get in London before I see you 
again.” 

The canvas and stretchers were carefully laid and 
fixed in the box which had been ordered for them, and 
the lid nailed down, — for in the midst of heart pains 
and love’s bitterest distress business must still be done, 
— and one of the farm men, well paid, was soon carry- 
ing it in a little taps towards St. Chamas, which was 
looked upon as quite a capital by the whole neighbor- 
hood. This same man, before he started, told Leopold 
how the whole country was looking forward to the 
ferradey or cattle-branding, to be held during the next 


134 


nr THE CAMARGUE. 


few days, and gave such a glowing description of it, 
that Morland seized upon the idea as some relief to his 
weariness and the bitter pain of his own and Noel’s 
unhappiness. For all Nasmyth’s efforts with Privas, 
and all Noel’s beseeching prayers to her grandmother, 
had not been followed by the least success. Paquette, 
indeed, had not behaved unkindly to the girl whom, 
after her own fierce way, she most tenderly loved. But 
she had entirely scouted the idea of Noel’s marrying a 
Protestant, or leaving them all, to be carried beyond 
the seas to unknown lands, where the people, by all cred- 
ible accounts, never worshipped God at all; and she 
rated Noel so soundly for her impiety in loving Leo, or 
allowing herself to have anything to say to a man who 
was not a Christian,” that the poor girl had fallen 
into depths of discouragement and sorrow, thinking that 
she had perhaps really been bewitched, and fallen under 
the powder of the evil one to the danger of losing her 
soul. She had, therefore, readily agreed to her grand- 
mother’s proposal of going for some days to the Bene- 
dictine Convent at Aigues Mortes, where her mother’s 
sister was Superior, that she might prepare herself to 
make a good confession, and in silent solitude learn 
wharwas marked out for her to do. There she could 
see Pere Maurel in more peace than during his hurried 
visits to the neighboring stations, or to see the sick ; and 
once away from Leopold, her mind would more clearly 
weigh and decide what course to follow. She should 
send and offer a silver heart, too, at the shrine of the 
Three Marys, in the full trust that they who had 


m THE CAMARGUE, 


135 


anointed the body of Christ, and watched for him at 
the sepulchre, would obtain for her some great favor and 
benefit. 

Paquette was very anxious to get the girl away, for 
she felt sure that Morland and his friend would hang 
about Cabridelle, and she much dreaded lest Leopold’s 
power of persuasion and the weakness wrought by 
such love as Noel’s might lead the girl to go off with 
him under the idea of getting married in the first church 
they came to. For Paquette was very ignorant of the 
details of life, and had the smallest possible idea of what 
was passing in the world around her. She therefore 
bade Noel put up all her worldly wealth of extra 
clothing, i, e, her one extra gown and skirt, both em- 
broidered, for Sundays and feasts, with her few changes 
of under-garments, spare shoes, and best shawl and 
apron. When these were laid neatly in the little 
wicker-case covered with coarse brown canvas with brass 
nails, Noel had only to ask her father’s forgiveness and 
blessing to be ready to start. 

One item, however, had been omitted in Paquette’s 
programme. She had intended to drive away with Noel 
in the small cart with the splendid bay mule appropri- 
ated for that service, without seeing either of the guests 
at Cabridelle. But love was too keen for such simple 
craft, and Noel went straight to the stable, whither she 
had seen Leopold go out about his box, and made known 
to him she was going away. Then saying, in a low 
voice, Come to the well in the orchard and say good- 


136 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


by, for in half an hour we shall start,” she vanished 
with quick steps. 

Morland hastily dispatched his own business with the 
laborer who had been giving him the account of the 
ferrade^ and then strode with long steps to the little 
well in the orchard, where he had so often watched Noel 
drawing water, washing her cheese-splints and pans, and 
filling the great two-handled, antique-shaped jars with 
water for the house. How many a sweet snatch of song 
and old versified Provengal proverb and word of 
wisdom he had heard there from her lips ; how many a 
word of petting and coaxing thanks he had given his 
‘‘ Birdie ” in return, as he lay in the shade under the 
orange trees ; and how richly she had repaid him with 
the shell color that had softly risen to her clear cheeks, 
with the deep look in her glorious eyes, with the slight 
toss of her pretty head with all its lustrous plaits. 
Such moments as those he had felt to be the very 
choicest and richest of his life, worth whole after years 
of loss and pain, even to have been enjoyed for an hour. 

Yes; but such moments in life are apt to mark its 
meridian, especially if they are indulged in without 
the foundation of any principle in their beginning or 
aim. 

Perhaps even Leopold’s light, superficial, impression- 
able nature felt this as deeply as he was capable of 
feeling anything, when he had brushed through the 
wild flowers of the orchard, and once more saw Noel 
beside the well, with the oranges hanging over her 
head, and the deepest sadness in her lovely face, as she 


IK THE CAMARGUE. 


137 


leaned upon the sun-dial with her rounded cheek in her 
hand. Then, indeed, her look and the droop of her 
whole figure went to Morland’s heart. He had gone 
close up to her and taken her hand, before either of 
them uttered a word. 

‘‘My own one, my red rose of delight ! ’’ murmured 
Leo, at last, in his softest tones. “ You are going to the 
convent then, to-day? ” 

“Yes, Leo, to-day.’’ It was the first time she had 
ever given him this name, and he felt it all through 
him, as her sweet, low voice spoke the word. “I 
wished it myself, for it is all misery here. My father 
will not speak to me, even at meals, and everything is 
wrong. He frightens me.” 

“My sweetest darling! I cannot imagine how he 
can be such a brute to you. But I beg your pardon, 
for he is your father still. I am glad, too, that you 
are going, sweet, for we, of course, are leaving Cabri- 
delle. We intend being present first at the ferrade^ 
and then, if all turns out well, we shall go on to Les 
Stes. Maries, and witness the feast there, and then make 
our way to Aigues Mortes. Who knows but that I may 
see you there, in your convent ? My muscadelo will be 
glad to see me, will she not? ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes ! ” exclaimed Noel, in a transport 
of delight. “Ah, now I shall not be so sad, for I 
shall think of seeing you again ! And who knows, 
Leo mine, but that the saints may bring us together 
after the feast ? — that you will get a good letter from 
England, and that we shall be able to be married after 


138 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


all ? You will tell me whatever news you get, will you 
not, dearest? ’’ 

‘‘Of course I shall tell you, sweetest one, and you 
must also tell me where you are to be found. Is there 
only one convent, and what is it called? ’’ 

“There is but one. It is the Benedictine Convent, 
which was part of the famous Abbey of Psalmodie ages 
ago, and after the revolution fife nuns went back to it. 
It is near the church, and any one will show it you. 
You must ask for Mere Bauget, the abbess, and beg her 
to give you leave to see me. They always call me 
Mademoiselle Privas when I am there.” 

“ And you are Mademoiselle Privas, are you not? It 
is a pretty name for my darling,” said Leo, caressing 
her beautiful head. “But don’t let them turn you 
into a nun, Birdie, for I cannot have my singing- 
bird caged up with those cross old nuns. Do you 
hear? ” 

“Yes, I hear; but the nuns are none of them cross,” 
replied Noel, smiling a little. “ They are as sweet, and 
even, and delicious as ripe peaches, and so kind to me. 
And they are so good, oh ! so good, and they chant 
softly and beautifully in the choir, like angels. I love 
so much to hear them sing Tenebrm, in the Holy Week. 
Then it really is like angels very far off, and very sor- 
rowful, sitting under the cross, when our Lord died. I 
shall never be good enough to be a nun.” 

“ I am glad of it, for then you would bo a great deal 
too good for me. Remember that, and remember your 
troth, my own one, and remember me. There is your 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


139 


grandmother calling you. Good-by, my own best 
darling, and may God keep you ! ’’ 

He pressed her passionately to him, kissing her 
again and again, as if his heart were in each kiss, 
and then Noel tore herself away,' and fled like a lap- 
wing to the house, -where her grandmother was standing 
beside the little cart, giving some last directions to one 
of the men about the cows. Noel got into the cart, 
and took her place beside her grandmother -without a 
word, and Paquette giving Brunon a touch of the 
whip, the powerful mule sprang forward with his 
ears laid back, and cantered viciously across the 
plain. 

Noel looked back with longing eyes at the farm 
and tufted orchard, and saw, from the window of the 
room which the two Englishmen had so long inhabited, 
a handkerchief waving in sign of farewell. She leaned 
back behind her grandmother, and kissed and waved 
her hand. Again the handkerchief fluttered, and then 
Cabridelle was left far behind. Noel felt that, what- 
ever was before her, whether unknown sorrows, or 
some new joy, that the sweetest chapter of her opening 
life was closed and folded away altogether into the 
past. 


140 


m THE CAMARQUE. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

AIGUES MORTES. 

I SHALL not follow the course of Paquette and her 
grand-daughter in their somewhat broken and compli- 
cated journey across the Camargue; first leaving the 
little cart and Brunon after a good day’s work, at a 
friendly mas^ then being taken across the Petit Rhone 
and great Canal de Beaucaire by other friends with 
whom Privas had acquaintance, and finally making 
their way through the network of salt marshes and 
lagoons, by the old raised causeway across which is 
thrown the picturesque old gateway and tower called 
La Carbonniere, into Aigues Mortes. We must take 
a quicker flight, and get into the curious old city 
before them. 

Every one, or nearly every one, in these days, has 
at least felt a passing interest in going through 
Avignon, even while treating that most beautiful and 
suggestive city merely as a railway station. Studied 
by the eye alone, Avignon carries back the gazer to 
some vision of the bygone centres of feudalism and 
days of mediaeval strongholds; and the mind conjures 
up with ease long processions of armed knights and 
yrarriors, and something of the ceremonial of feudal 


Z2V THE CAMARGUE. 


141 


chivalry. The city of Aigues Mortes even more com- 
pletely fulfils the same end, for its picturesque walls, 
towers, and fortifications, have not been altered by a 
stone since the thirteenth century, when they rose 
under the Genoese Boccanegra for Philip the Bold, the 
son of the great St. Louis. A very remarkable round 
tower, ninety feet high, surmounted again by a turret 
thirty-four feet, which was formerly the citadel, in- 
stantly attracts the eye. It it known as the Tour 
de Constance, to commemorate the persistence of 
Philip the Bold in carrying out his father's plans of 
fortification. St. Louis sailed out from Aigues Mortes 
— now three good miles from the sea — on his crusade 
in A.D. 1270, when a fleet of eight hundred vessels and 
an army of forty thousand men gave a far different 
aspect to this now truly buried city. On his return, 
the great French king fortified the town, with the idea 
of making it a stronghold against the Saracens, whose 
ravages and obstinate occupation of Languedoc, Provence, 
and the Biviera generally, have left so many memorials 
in the mountain towns and fortresses, as well as in the 
superstitions, habits, customs, and language of the 
northern shores of the Mediterranean. Aigues Mortes 
had been a well-known town long before the days of 
St. Louis ; for its origin dates from the eighth century, 
and in the eleventh it had clustered round a magnificent 
abbey, whose ruins are still to be seen. This abbey, 
very famous in its day for the multitude of its monks, 
and the office which never ceased its chant day or 
night, was called Psalmodie,’^ under which name 


142 


m THE CAMARQUE. 


its renown was spread far and wide. As the kings of 
France in the thirteenth century were only suzerains 
of the southern provinces, they possessed no ports of 
their own on the Mediterranean, and St. Louis there- 
fore bought the abbey with its dependencies, as it 
stood, of the Abbot Raymond; and for the protection 
of the merchants and artisans who flocked to any con- 
siderable crusading station, as well as for the safety of 
the crusaders themselves, the king began to erect that 
great citadel known as the Tour de Constance, sur- 
rounded the town walls with a vast fosse, and spanned 
the approach by the long raised causeway with the 
strong fortified gate of La Carbonniere. On his first 
safe return from the Holy Land, St. Louis took im- 
mense pains to render Aigues Mortes both a strong 
fortress and a safe resort; and in the total lack of 
stone and good building materials, he stripped the old 
city of Maguelonne ^ of all its curious tombs. This 
was afterwards looked upon by the inhabitants, whose 
reverence for the dead is a beautiful and deep-rooted 
characteristic, as a sacrilege, which was visited by the 
king’s subsequent defeat and death. 

The fortifications of Aigues Mortes were built upon 
the model of those at Damietta, in Egypt ; and are to 
be seen exactly as when built in all their glory of loop- 
holed battlements and picturesque towers and turrets at 
this day. It is true that the great fosse has been filled 
up, as it became a mere bed of fever, and that the canal 
leading to the old harbor of Grace du Roi, and the 
* The parent of Montpellier. 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


143 


ruined port with its old mooring-rings, — to which it is 
traditionally said that the galley of St. Louis had been 
fastened, — are now choked up wdth sand and marsh 
slime, and overgrown with reeds and lagoon vegetation, 
and that the armies and galleys of crusading hosts, with 
the interests and faith which animated them, are all 
among the things forever past. But, nevertheless, the 
old city of Aigues Mortes, with its lofty citadel and 
abiding walls, still stands above the marshy plains of 
Languedoc, as if to witness that the place where unceas- 
ing praise had once gone up from the devout choirs of 
Psalmodie could not be swept away. 

All around it, as about Rome, the green marshes and 
salt plains have become deadly with pestilence, and the 
whole aspect of the country, even more than the Ca- 
margue,^ by degrees has come to w^ear the garb of liv- 
ing death. At this present time it suggests nothing but 
Dante’s infernal circles ; and as the black boats and their 
sallow, hollow-eyed boatmen float slowly down the stag- 
nant canals, laden with salt, or half-decayed, foetid reeds, 
or refuse coal, or fish and nets, the spectator feels as if 
gazing at the waters of the Cocytus, the Phlegethon, or 
the Styx ; to be watching the transit of Charon and the 
condemned, and to be altogether removed from all living 
interests and men, into a world of phantoms and 
shadows. 

As long ago as the thirteenth century, a kind of forebod- 
ing chill seemed to strike the inhabitants of this singular 

* Aigues Mortes, though looked upon as the capital of the Ca- 
margue, is beyond the limits of the island. 


144 


m THE CAMAJtGUE. 


town as to their ill-omened name ; and they besought 
St. Louis again and again to change it to “ Bonne par 
Force.’’ But the old title, for some unexplained reason, 
obstinately clung to them, and the lapse of time brought 
with it its exact adaptation to the city. Within the 
walls it presents a curious resemblance to a chess-board, 
being laid out, on the old Assyrian model, in straight 
lines and squares, with a larger and rather more sunny 
and cheerful square in the centre. The interior of the 
citadel de Constance is less pleasing to the imagination 
than the outside view. It was made for many centu- 
ries a State prison, and, like the prisons of the Roman 
persecutions, was divided into two great round chambers 
the size of the tower, of which the lower was deprived 
of all light and air but that derived from the aperture 
in the upper floor. The women taken prisoners during 
the miserable religious wars of Languedoc and the Ce- 
vennes — and, afterwards, the Huguenots, who refused 
to abjure their religion after the revocation of the 
Edict of Nantes — were thrown into these frightful dun- 
geons ; and, what is almost impossible to the mind now 
to conceive, but is absolutely a fact of history, the last 
victims were released only in A. D. 1767. This act of 
humanity was undertaken on the sole responsibility of 
the governor of Languedoc, M. de Beauveau, whose 
name deserves to be handed down to all generations with 
perpetual honor. 

Through the narrow, paved streets, with the tall, 
quaint-roofed and quaint-dormered houses, as silent as if 
they formed a part of a city of the dead, Paquette and 


/jy the camargue. 


145 


Noel were now making their way in a little charette 
drawn by an aged aigue^ which they had hired at a douane^ 
or custom-house for the preservation of salt, after crossing 
the Canal de Beaucaire. Both the women looked travel- 
worn and weary with the stagnant heat of the marshes, and 
Noel’s pretty head drooped from more causes than fatigue. 
But they had not far to go now, and, turning down a street 
at the left angle of the chief place^ the charette stopped 
before a high-arched door, in a lofty, gray, blind wall. 
Paquette directed Noel to get out and pull the old brown 
handle of the bell- wire twice, after which a deep, hollow 
bell rang with a sound as time-worn as if it had hung 
there when St. Louis passed through the town. Next, 
the rusted wicket cautiously slid back, and a veiled head 
was seen behind it for a moment, after which the ponder- 
ous gate creaked and groaned as it rolled back its great 
leaves to allow the charette and its occupants to drive in- 
side. They stopped in front of the portiere^ where a nun 
in a long black habit, with white wimple and head under- 
gear, was standing, and the next moment Noel was receiv- 
ing the usual convent salute of a kiss on both cheeks. 
Paquette, who was slower in descending and arranging 
her reins, was then greeted in the same way ; and the nun, 
whom they called Sister Romana, bade them welcome 
very kindly, and pulled a second brown handle, which in 
due time brought out another nun, rather stately, who 
said that Mother Abbess would soon be at leisure to see 
them. Just now she was with the econome (bursar), 
and could not be disturbed, but she would just take them 
into the church for a little prayer, and then they should 


146 


Jjsr THE CAMATtGUE, 


rest themselves in the parlor till she came or sent for 
them. Noel was not even allowed to carry her little 
brown valise, but it was deposited in the portiere for Sis- 
ter Romana to take into the convent when the hour came 
for her to be relieved. 

They went across the broad, silent, moss-grown court, 
paved with immense gray stones, which looked as if they 
also had been part of the spoils of Maguelonne ; and Noel 
glanced up at the steep flagged roof, with its exquitite 
thirteenth-century cresting, its tourelles crowned with 
quaint old girandoles or weather-flags of lacelike iron- 
work, that long ages ago had been gilt, and its stacks of 
magnificent chimneys set together cornerwise, ^nd each one 
inscribed with 

©icu. Pour. JKog* ©uh ffiantre, — 
the motto of the last abbot of Psalmodie, whose sister 
had founded the abbey for women, which the present 
Benedictine branch had superseded in the year A.D. 1523. 
Upon the roof^ and fluttering down to the' court, a num- 
ber of white pigeons sprinkled, tame enough to perch on 
the nuns’ shoulders and eat out of their hands. Their 
soft, intermittent cooing was the only sound to be heard 
through the great building, that, like the rest of the town, 
looked like some landmark left stranded by a bygone 
age on the shores of time. 

The nun made her way to an arched and fretted door- 
way, closed only by an ancient leather hanging-mat, 
which she lifted up to allow Paquette and Noel to pass 
in, and let fall noiselessly again. They found themselves 
in the old convent church, frequented also by such of the 


m THE CAMAROUE. 


147 


neighborhood as wished to hear mass there, or use it for 
their private devotions. Narrow windows of dim, but 
exquisite old glass, broken up with a good deal of white, 
allowed a colored light to fall in checkered stains on the 
pavement ; and as the three women knelt on the time- 
worn stones, the stained light seemed to fall on three 
shadows from another world. The altar was of old mar- 
ble mosaic, and above it and the tabernacle was an ancient 
‘‘doom’’ in fresco, whose faded figures, to Noel’s eyes, 
wore a solemn and majestic appearance, though, in truth, 
they were poor as works of art. Paquette knelt a short 
time, repeating half aloud part of a short chaplet or rosa- 
ry, and then sat down nearly asleep ; but Noel knelt long, 
with her head bent, on the low vesper chair. Here, at 
least, there was a rest from the fevered thoughts and feel- 
ings of the past five weeks ; here it seemed as if she had 
been transported to another world, very still, and calm, 
and colorless, where, if any light from above should be 
granted her, it would strike into her mind peacefully and 
without disturbance. Like many people who live in the 
country, surrounded only with natural images and pur- 
suits, without much of the daily outward ministrations of 
religion, Noel had been overcome and weakened by the 
force of the mere natural and material world, which feeds 
and ministers to passion and the natural feelings and 
wishes. Surrounded by the beauty of fruits and flowers, 
harvests and vintages, animals and their young, and all 
the habits, and sights, and sounds, and wants of natural 
life, she, too, had felt her blood quicken and flow in a 
swifter course, and had gradually come to feel that what 


148 


IN TBE CAMARGUE. 


was the habit of all nature was the habit also of man, as 
nature’s lord. Love as a natural emotion and need, 
rather than love as a pure affection coming from God and 
tending to him, and to the burning up of all selfish desires, 
had asserted itself in her life with a tyranny which had 
bound her heart and mind with strong chains ; and of late 
she had felt those chains to be bonds, which were eating 
into her very soul. Still pure and innocent, because 
from childhood her purity had been taught and her inno- 
cence had been guarded, and because thrice a day she 
threw her heart into the Angelus and besought, with a 
real childlike love, the Mother of the Spotless One ” to 
be her mother for life and death, Noel’s passions had yet 
been stirred up and heated by the thoughtless, caressing 
admiration of her English lover, and many of the finer 
safeguards had been broken through as threads are snapped 
before a fierce fire. She had lost the one great principle 
of allowing nothing whatever to banish the thought of God, 
and she had cherished a shy reluctance to asking advice 
and opening her needs to her confessor. But now, as she 
knelt in the dim old church, severed from outward dis- 
turbance, and in front of the tabernacle, where her faith 
discerned God’s presence, her soul seemed to awaken, 
fibre by fibre, and, like the undertones of the bursting 
leafage of spring, to put forth and unfold its whisperings 
of wonted life, and for the first time for many weeks 
Noel really prayed. 

She was still kneeling, with her hands covering her 
face, while Paquette was enjoying a sound and refresh- 
ing nap, when the heavy hanging-mat was again lifted. 


IN THE CAMAROUE. 


149 


and the nun who had brought them into the church 
noiselessly crossed the pavement, and touched Noel on 
the shoulder. She started a little, wakened up her 
grandmother, and the three women left the church. The 
nun quietly said, ‘‘ Mother Abbess will see you now. I 
am going to take you to her room.” 

And then returning to her shadow-state, she noise- 
lessly led them down a long, wide corridor, and lifting 
her finger at the end of it, tapped softly twice at a door 
covered with a thick green curtain. ‘‘Deo gratias” 
was heard in a distinct, rather deep voice, and the nun 
opened the door, motioned to Noel and her grandmother 
to enter, and closed it behind them without a sound. 


150 


IN THE CAM4RQUE. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE ABBESS AND THE CONFESSOR. 

“You are welcome/’ said the same distinct, deep 
voice as they went in. “Madame Paquette, you have 
done well to bring me your little child. And you, my 
little one, have done rightly to come. You shall enjoy 
a real rest for a while, which, please God, will do you 
good. But you must be hungry and thirsty, and tired, 
with your long, hot journey ; and our great Father, St. 
Benedict, orders that all strangers and travellers shall be 
first taken to the church, to thank God for their safety, 
and then to the refectory, to be refreshed. But as our 
time may be cut short, I will ask you, Madame 
Paquette, to stay and talk to me now for a short time, 
and then your dinner will be quite ready for you. Xoel, 
my child, will you step out into the garden through this 
anteroom, and remain there till you are called? ” 

Noel bent her head as she replied, “ Yes, ma mere,” 
and went her way through the little room, and the large 
casement window, like a glass door down to the ground 
to which the abbess had pointed. 

It was a fine, though marked face which smiled 
slightly at her as she left the room, and then turned all 
its power of attention upon Paquette, who sat down with 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


151 


folded arms in the chair placed for her. Mere Bauget 
the Benedictine Abbess, as she was called, though she 
was, in fact, only a prioress, was Noel’s mother’s sister, 
and must have had much the same cast of face as Noel 
herself when she was young. Even now,- when like 
all southern w^omen she looked much older than her 
age, her face had a dignified beauty in which force and 
sweetness were well mingled. Her ample, wide-sleeved 
Benedictine habit suited her face ; and, under the tight 
head-band and sepulchral linen folds, the excellent dark 
eyes gave the impression of administrative power and 
motherly responsibility, as well as truth and integrity. 

I am glad you have come, my dear Aunt Paquette,” 
she said again. “You have acted with judgment and 
true kindness to your poor little grandchild. I gathered 
from your letter that the young man in question is a real 
gentleman by birth and education, though he paints as a 
profession, and thereupon I take for granted that his in- 
tentions towards Noel are good. Is not that so? ” 

“I have no sort of reason, ma mere, to think other- 
wise,” replied Paquette. “I have no fault to find with 
the gentleman himself, though I wish it was his friend, 
whose steadiness and certain character I think a deal of. 
Mr. Morland is a real gentleman, no doubt, and acts like 
one, though I fancy he has been a good bit wild. But 
then, you see, he is a Protestant, ma mere, to begin with, 
and I cannot think how the child could ever bring her- 
self to think of a husband who is not a Christian. Next, 
her father is quite bent on her marrying the cattle-guard, 
who has lately come back to our side, and Rambert is so 


152 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


famous on all the teradous as a brander of the fiercest 
jpalusins; indeed, as both muzzier and brander, one 
whom the beasts can never conquer.” 

‘‘Rambert the cattle-guard? But is he a good man. 
Aunt Paquette? I have heard him spoken of as a 
wonder for courage and strength, but I should think 
not a man living up to his religion, and a rough mate 
for that poor bird.” 

“He does not practise his religion, that is true, ma 
mere. Rambert has not crossed the door-step of a 
church, nor bent the knee to a priest for years. But 
still he is good at heart, and I do not think it is any 
vice that keeps him from practising his religious duties. 
Men are strange creatures, ma mere. They are so 
proud and shy about doing what costs a woman nothing 
at all, and, indeed, what she feels to be a comfort. 
And then, I have heard that Rambert was never much 
instructed — quite in the old-fashioned way, you know ; 
and maybe the old cure of St. Chamas was a little 
rough and quick with boys. Anyhow, Rambert never 
seemed to have any pleasure in his religion, or to put 
any heart in it at all, but he told me lately that if Noel 
were his wife she could lead him with a string and make 
of him what she chose. Why cannot it be so ? Why 
must a mere girks fancy come between us and all our 
happiness in the child? ” 

A sad, sympathizing smile gleamed across the abbess’ 
discerning face. “A girl’s fancy has more than once 
disturbed the world, dear Aunt Paquette. I suppose 
God, who instituted marriage in Paradise, also made 


ly THE CAMARGUE. 


153 


women what they are in regard to their hearts and 
affections. You surely do not think any one can be 
hidden to love? 

Paquette stared, open-eyed, at the abbess. 

Well, ma mere, I can’t exactly say; but a girl may 
surely be bidden to marry by her parents?” 

“ She may, and the marriage may turn out to be a 
very unhappy one ; nay, it may even become a very 
sinful one, in consequence. Is it not so? ” 

‘^God forbid our little one should so disgrace her 
religion and us ! ” uttered Paquette, making the sign of 
the cross. ‘‘You are right, ma mere, of course; but 
you cannot conceive what a great annoyance it is to her 
father and me.” 

“Is Nicole very much displeased?” asked the 
abbess. 

“Furiously displeased, ma mere. I never saw him 
so evil-disposed. He makes me wretched with his loud, 
angry voice and cruel threats about the child, and she 
makes me miserable with her swollen eyelids and sad 
face. Poor, innocent lamb ! Ah, I do wish there were 
no men at all in the world ! We should get along so 
easy and pleasant if there were not ! Caspitello ! — I 
ask your pardon — I mean, dame ! how happy we should 
be then from about Easter till harvest ! ” 

“ Poor Aunt Paquette ! ” said the abbess, laughing ; 
“ you would want just a few for the harvest, would you 
not ; and for the ferrade too, and several other things ? 
No, Paquette ; God made men strong and inventive and 
protecting, and therefore they must be cruel and 


154 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


destructive too. You cannot have one set of qualities 
without their counterparts till we are all safe in heaven. 
We should often like to make and settle the world over 
afresh, but it would not be half so good a world as it is 
made for us, with all its drawbacks. Well, I am very 
glad you have brought the child here to us. She will 
have quiet, and the church, and I can see her whenever 
she likes, and there will be Pere Maurel. No other 
man shall ever disturb her. And I feel sure she wants 
some little change. She is very pretty — too pretty — 
I could wish she were not half so beautiful.’’ 

Well, I suppose, as you say about the men, God 
made her so,” said Paquette, with a shrewd kink of 
the eye. And, for my part, I think a man is always 
glad to have a pretty wife. Noel is the very likeness 
of her poor mother, and even rather smaller and less 
pretty-colored than my girl was, — God rest her dear 
soul ! — for she was just as much my girl as if she were 
my own. Too sweet a flower to live long in this world, 
and I should like to go to her when Noel is only safe 
married. But I leave it all to you, ma mere, for I 
know you love her and wish only her good, and this is a 
millstone I can’t see through, at all ! ” 

A low tap at the door was then heard and answered 
by the usual ‘‘ Deo gratias ! ” and a lay sister came in 
to say that the dinner for madame and mademoiselle was 
served in St. Placid’s parlor. The abbess directed the 
sister to summon Noel from the garden, and kindlj? 
dismissed her with her grandmother, enjoining the sister 


IJSr THE CAMARGVE. 


155 


to make the travellers eat well, and to see that they had 
everything they wanted. 

The next morning Paquette took leave of the kind 
abbess, and started alone across part of the Camargue, 
towards Cabridelle. She was to pick up one of their 
own neighboring farmers at some distance from Aigues 
Mortes, who had promised to see her safe home. And 
happily, even if she missed him, there was not a 
creature on the way who would have injured a hair of 
her head. Noel was up very early to see her start, for 
Paquette had wished to take advantage of this rare 
journey to Aigues Mortes to make her confession and 
communion before she left the town. She had, there- 
fore, been astir at the earliest streak of dawn, had 
sought out Pere Maurel before his mass, communicating 
at it, and having thus, in her simple, whole-hearted 
fashion, “put herself straight,’’ she commended the 
whole complication of Noel’s affairs to better hands, and 
started homeward with her heart much lighter than it 
had been the day before. When the groaning and 
creaking old gates had shut out the little cart from 
sight, Noel went slowly back across the church-yard 
into the church. 

Should she speak to Pere Maurel now, or should 
she wait a little while, till she had argued out the 
matter with her own mind ? She would speak now. 

She had seen the gray -haired priest come out of the 
sacristy in his surplice and purple stole, and knew, there- 
fore, that he had gone into his confessional. She would 
seek him there, and without making her regular confes- 


156 


JiV THE CAMAnGUE. 


sion would tell him all her troubles. Perhaps he would 
be gentler and kinder to her than she now seemed to ex- 
pect. She knelt for a few moments before the altar, 
with its quaint old massive lamp and ever-burning red 
light that gleamed like a live flame, and then stepped to 
the right hand into the outer aisle full of side-chapels — 
that into which she was going, dedicated to the Seven 
Sorrows of the Blessed Virgin, was hung from floor to 
roof with ex-votos — and knelt down before the confes- 
sional grate. The little door was immediately slid back 
from within, and the grating unclosed. 

‘‘Father,’’ said Noel, without an instant’s pause, “I 
do not wish to confess now, but I should like to tell you 
several things, if I may.” 

“ Speak, my child; I am quite ready to hear.” 

“ Father, I have engaged to marry a Protestant.” 

“ My child, I am sorry to hear it. But perhaps you 
expect that he will become a Catholic? ” 

“I have no hope of it, father; but if I marry him he 
will never interfere with me, nor in any way prevent my 
practising my religious duties.” 

Will he engage that his children shall be brought 
up Catholics? ” 

Noel hesitated. “Father, nothing has been said 
about that.” 

“ That would be an absolutely necessary condition, my 
child. Will he engage to be married in a Catholic 
Church? ” 

“Yes, father, he will. He has promised me that.” 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


157 


That is well, so far, my child. Do your parents 
give consent to this marriage ? ’’ 

“No, father; at least my father refuses his consent, 
and my grandmother is against it.’’ 

“ You will obey your father, my child, will you not ? ” 

“Father, I think not. I do not think I can give up 
the man I love, — the only man I ever shall love, — even 
at my father’s wish.” 

“ My child, what is the fourth^ commandment? ” 

“ ^ Honor thy father and thy mother,’ ” replied Noel, 
in a very low voice. “ Father, I know that ; but, surely, 
the commandment does not mean that we are bound to 
marry or not marry as our parents wish.” 

“My child, that is cavilling and criticising; I think 
you have been taught that the commandment plainly 
means obedience in all that is 'not sin. I do not say 
you would be bound to marry any man your father might 
point out; but if he should propose any one, you are 
bound to consider the matter before God, and be able to 
give good, valid reasons for not accepting his choice. 
Has he done so? ” 

“Yes, father. He wishes me to marry Rambert the 
cattle-guard, on the other side of the Camargue, whose 
teradou is near us.” 

“Is he a good Christian, my child? Do you know 
anything more about him.” 

“ I do not love him, father. I do not want to know 
anything about him.” 

“You speak like a child and a woman. Is there not 
* According to the Catholic numbering of the Commandments. 


158 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


love and love ? If you were to marry at your father’s 
choice, should you not love your husband, and try to 
make him happy ? ” 

“No, father, never! ” 

“ My dear little child, what makes you so indocile in 
this matter ? Why not? ” 

“Because — ” said Noel, hesitating, or rather paus- 
ing long between each word, “because if I married — 
any one — I do not love — I think — I should kill 
him ! ” 

There was a dead silence, — a silence so intense that 
Noel felt her heart also cease to beat, and as it continued^ 
seeming to her to lengthen out for uncounted hours, she 
at last gasped out, “ Father, speak to me ! say something, 
father ! ” 

Still there was silence, but at length with a deep sigh, 
as of some one awakening from unconsciousness, the 
voice again spoke with far more gentleness even than be- 
fore: “The words you have just said show what kind 
of love that is which you are cherishing, and how far it 
has dragged you aside from the right path. My poor 
little child I You have allowed yourself to parley with 
the evil one, and he has deceived you, as he deceives all 
women, through your heart. I am glad you have come 
to me, — more glad than I can say, — for you have chosen 
the right means of tearing away the deluding mask of 
temptation, and of judging according to the truth. We 
will talk fully over this matter together, my child, and I 
have no doubt that when it has been unravelled you will 
find your mind a great deal clearer than it is now. Go 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


159 


first to the altar, and before the presence of God lay 
your whole trouble before him. He alone knows how 
weary and weighty are the burdens of life, and he alone 
can loose them from our shoulders by ways unseen to us. 
Then go to our blessed Mother and put yourself under 
her care, and ask her to show herself a true mother to 
you, a poor, little motherless one. This afternoon, while 
the nuns are at office, I shall come to the convent and 
ask for you, getting leave, of course, of Mother Abbess 
beforehand. Go now, my little one, for I do not like 
you to kneel too long. Seek God’s light for me and for 
you, but calmly, trustingly; do not wear yourself out. 
God bless you, my child ! ’’ 

The little door instantly closed before the grating, 
and Noel rose from her knees, already comforted and 
strengthened, to do as she had been bidden. 


160 


IN THE CAMARQUB. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE FERRADE. 

The sun rose on the great desert of that part of the 
Camargue lying salt and sandy between Les Stes. Maries 
and the Petit Rhone. Bounded on the east by the vast 
irregular marsh-lake of FEtang des Vulca'ires and the other 
network of swamps and ponds which run up beyond St. 
Cecile, and on the west by the rushing, impetuous 
branch river known as the Petit Rhone, the country 
offered a fine field for the grand ceremony of the ferrade^ 
or cattle-branding, to be gone through to-day. The 
ferrade was a much more popular and important festivity 
than the muselade^ chiefly on account of the dangerous 
nature of the combat between the biouUs, or powerful 
young bulls, and the cattle-guards, who undertook to 
brand them with the mark of their owners on the flank. 
It is, in fact, the Provengal bull-fight, and the struggle 
in many cases is also one of life and death ; for there is 
no help of machinery or apparatus, such as might easily 
be contrived for penning in the bullocks, and hobbling 
them so as to render them nearly helpless. There is not 
even the useful assistance of the lasso, by which the 
South American keepers of the estancias reduce the 
bufialoes to submission. In the Camargue alone the old 


m THE CAMARGUE, 


IGl 


hand-to-hand fights of Hercules with the beasts of the 
field and forest seem still to be maintained, and if it 
were not that it is a land utterly unvisited and unknown, 
and dangerous with pestilential marsh-fever, there is no 
doubt that the Camargue ferrades would become the 
most fashionable resorts for English guardsmen and 
worn-out tourists in search of some new excitement, to 
say nothing of authors on the lookout for the basis of a 
magazine article with some pretence of freshness about 
it. Many a magazine would have “gone up’’ had the 
various details of the scene and actors in to-day’s y%rrac?e 
been faithfully rendered into “ copy ” for the benefit of 
London editors. 

What a scene it was ! It is impossible to describe 
it, yet a faint description must be ventured. Far away 
as the eye could reach northwards lay the plain of 
silver-white sand, covered with the salt efllorescence 
exactly as a thick hoar-frost covers a smooth grass lawn 
in the winter, and sparkling like that, with prismatic 
color, wherever not broken into by the asters and 
lavender and the few mourning plumes of tamarisks that 
sprinkled it here and there. To the east the green 
swamps bordering the Valcaires were moving with their 
world of cranes, storks, ducks, and flamingoes, while 
beyond these the gray water was seen stretching on that 
side to the horizon. Southwards, the boundless blue 
sea and the boundless blue sky met, like two “for- 
evers,” each striving to contain the immensity of the 
other. On the west only, some signs of higher vegeta- 
tion were discernible, — the line of willows and salicors^ 


162 


JJV THE CAMAEGUE. 


and gigantic grasses and shrubs which grew along the 
Petit Rhone. And in front of these trees were arranged 
the cahaous, — the household furniture which is brought 
out from all the neighboring mas, or farmhouses, and 
piled into a sort of fortification, behind which the carts 
and other vehicles are ranged in shelter. The cabaous, 
therefore, make a kind of list, within which the brave 
cattle-dealers joust with the fierce bullocks now about to 
be branded and take their distinctive place in the wild 
herds ranging from one teradou to another of the Lower 
Camargue. The first level beams had scarcely yet darted 
across the intense blue sea; the first long rosy dawn 
cloud had not yet been swallowed up by the heat ; never- 
theless, there was already a crowd of charettes and 
spectators behind the cabaous, talking, laughing, cooking 
in various utensils brought for the purpose, while some 
had even advanced so far as the eating and drinking 
stage. Beyond the line of carts, that is, at the northerly 
margin of the cabaous, vast droves of bulls and bullocks 
were stationed in a terrible phalanx and living barrier, 
which it would have required a very desperate bullock 
indeed to face ; for it is one of the strangest character- 
istics of the ferrade, that the bulk of the herds are 
accustomed to ^‘keep the ground’’ and act police 
towards those special bioules who are to undergo the 
punishment of branding. Perhaps no more wonderful 
instance can be found of fierce animals ranging them- 
selves under the standard of conquering man, on the side 
of order and government, than this of the bull herds of 
the Camargue. Among the earliest arrivals were 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


163 


Rambert’s immense droves, duly preceded by Oriflamme, 
with his scarlet-sashed belt, while Les Rochers, as usual, 
in sullen glory, was led in unwilling triumph behind, 
like Caradoc into Rome. 

Rambert had much grief on his mind, as we all know, 
but that did not prevent him from stationing his cattle in 
the best position for their own comfort and general use- 
fulness; neither did it hinder his joining a fellow-cattle- 
guard, with whom., he was on somewhat more sociable 
terms than was his general custom, and with whose help 
he made a fine fire of dried house and pine-cones, to boil 
their huge pot of coffee. A good jorum of strong coffee, 
with plenty of boiled milk, a huge hunch of polenta- 
bread, and a bunch of sun-dried grapes, or raisins, which- 
ever name may be chosen, made in their eyes a breakfast 
fit for a king ; and while the two cattle-guards, Rambert 
and Sardou, with four great watch-dogs, ate and drank, 
they laughed and jested as if no trouble had ever come 
across their two light hearts. But when they had ex- 
tinguished their fire and separated for the* day’s work, 
Rambert mounted his second aigae^ and rode very slowly 
all along the line of the cahaous, carefully inspecting 
every face that was there ; and as he did so, every vestige 
of laughter or gayety had utterly vanished from his dark 
face. He seemed to be seeking some one, but it could 
not surely be Noel, with that face ! 

A great deal was to be seen behind and among the 
cabaous, if he had had the eyes to note it. Brown- 
faced, laughing girls, far more ready to flirt than to eat, 
and quite willing to show the gigantic cattle-guard favor. 


164 


nr THE CAM ARGUE, 


if his large disdainful eyes had condescended to recognize 
and respond to the glances of their long, almond ones. 
Women of all ages seemed to take to Rambert, with that 
strange, instinctive longing women have for power and 
strength. There were pretty townswomen too, in all 
manner of bright colors and smart town garments, from 
Arles, the great civilized capital looked upon throughout 
the Camargue as j9ar excellence ^ the fountain of fashion 
in their eyes. There were Sainiins, too (women of Les 
Stes. Maries), with the pretty head-dress and more pol- 
ished manners than were known on the Uradous; and 
there were fishermen and their wives from the Mediter- 
ranean rades^ nearly as black as negroes, and with the 
uncouth projecting features which in Provence and Lower 
Languedoc betray the intermingling of Arab blood. 
And among the crowded varieties of their kind, but min- 
gling familiarly with none, there were wild gypsy- women 
with their gleaming, blue-black eyes and purplish hair, 
dressed in bright yellows and reds and rich browns, 
whose tongues and eyes, and glittering teeth, and rapid 
motions, and wild music, seemed to put the climax of 
some new life to the marvellous scene. 

All this, though Rambert saw it without seeing, was 
beheld by other eyes with delighted amazement.,. 

‘‘Look there, old fellow!’’ said a tall, fair-bearded 
man to his companion. “ Did you ever think it would 
be our lot to see anything like that? ” 

“ No, I cannot say I did, nor that it was to be seen in 
Europe at all. It is more like some Arab encampment, 
or a gathering in Asia Minor, or the Syrian desert. 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


165 


You really ought to take down some of these groups, 
Leo, before they have at all faded from your mind. 
Just look at that big fellow on the lovely gray barb; he 
might sit for the Sheikh Abraham, or the Emir Job. 
That is what I call a true ^ dark, splendid ’ face.’’ 

‘‘Why, I rather think he is going to make a sketch 
of replied Morland, fixing his eyes upon him. 

“ What the deuce is the fellow taking stock of us in that 
way for, and with such a very kill-joy face, too? ” 

The “fellow ” was, of course, no other than Rambert, 
who, having caught sight of ^our two friends,' seemed at 
once to have found what he had been seeking, and rode 
very slowly towards and close up to them, with his eyes 
fixed steadily upon Morland, and certainly with his dark 
face growing darker than usual as he made his inspec- 
tion. Having apparently satisfied his curiosity, the 
cattle-guard was about to turn his horse in another direc- 
tion, but some thought freshly struck him, and he drew 
up close beside Morland, to whom he made a rough sal- 
utation, and said : — 

“ Pardon, sir, but may I ask if you and your com- 
panion have been lately staying at a farm called Cabri- 
delle?” 

“ Why do you ask?” said Nasmyth, suddenly step- 
ping before Leopold, and touching him at the same time 
on the arm. 

“Not from mere curiosity, sir, I assure you; I know 
Nicole Privas well. He will be here by-and-by, and I 
could ask him just as easily, but I would rather be open 
with yourself.” 


166 


IN THE CAMAKGUE. 


“ Open ? ” repeated Morland ; wliat is it all about? 
We were both at Cabridelle, and came across the Ca 
margue from there not many days since.’’ 

thank you, sir. I knew you would tell me; you 
are a real gentleman, that I know, and to my cost.” 

‘‘Well, I think it is my turn to ask questions, now,” 
said Morland, good-humoredly. “ How am I or my con- 
cerns in any way to your cost, by which, I suppose, you 
mean that I have injured you in some way? I think I 
never saw you before, did I? ” 

“No, sir, nor I you,” Rambert replied slowly. “I 
will tell you frankly what I mean, sir. It is my wish 
to have Noel Privas for my wife, and by God’s help I 
will have her ! Her father wishes it ; her grandmother 
wishes it; and I think she herself would have wished it, 
if you had not stepped in between us and raised her 
fancy with something new. Sir, you have done a great 
injury to me and to all of us by coming out of your class 
to make love. We are all working people, on one level, 
and of the same country, and we could have been happy 
all our lives, if you had not come here to upset and dis- 
turb us. You have done us all a great wrong, and it 
will be well if it is not visited on you. Yv^e are wild, 
rough people in these parts, and you would do well to 
look to yourself, sir.” 

“My good fellow, do not try on any bullying. Do 
you mean that my life will be threatened ? I will not 
believe so ill of the people here, who are some of the 
honestest and most honorable I ever saw. I am very 
sorry indeed to have become in any way your rival. I 


nr THE CAM ARGUE. 


167 


suppose you are the cattle-guard of whom I have heard, 
and that your name is Kambert ? I say again, I am 
most heartily sorry, but I cannot on that account make 
any pretence of giving up my right for your sake. I 
will fight you, if you like, in our English way, with 
fists, or wrestle with you, or ride a race with you, but I 
cannot give up Noel to you unless she tells me that'she 
prefers you herself. You know she is gone to Aigues 
Mortes now, to stay a while in the convent. If she de- 
cides there in your favor, then you know we must both 
shake hands, and I shall go back to England and try to 
forget her the best I can. But if she decides for me, 
Rambert, then you must be a man and strive to do the 
same. Will you shake hands now, and say you will do 
this? ’’ 

Rambert sat, as he had done when talking with the 
douanier Pipet, like a colored marble statue on his horse. 
Then his dark eyes flashed, and his brows bent till they 
met, as he answered, There is no such thing as for- 
getting to us Camargascans ! We can love and we can 
hate, and we can kill and we can die, but as to forgiving 
and forgetting when the love and the hate are burnt into 
our very flesh, that is child’s talk, fit only for children at 
play. No ! I will not hand shake with you, sir, but 
some time soon we shall meet one another face to face, 
and see which can fight to the death for his love. Till 
then, farewell, sir! ” 

He dashed the long spurs into his fiery horse, w'ho 
leaped off his four legs into the air, and then galloped 
away at lightning speed across the plain. 


168 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


“I don’t quite know if I have got a knife put into 
my ribs or a bullet into my heart,” said Morland, striv- 
ing to carry himself well, but failing to shake off a sharp 
inward gnawing of the remorse which now seldom left 
him. ‘‘What is to be done, dearest old Conscience, in 
this crisis of my fate? ” 

“ Easily asked, not easily answered, dear old Leo,” 
said Nasmyth, cheerily. “ Let us at all events get out 
of the lists, and towards the ropes, for I think the fun is 
going to begin in earnest.” 

He took Morland’s arm to rouse and turn him round, 
and they both moved away towards the cahaous^ for the 
cattle-guard were riding about and pricking up some of 
the bullocks with their tridents, who answered the com- 
pliment by loud roaring and bellowing, and beginning to 
lash their tails and butt at the horses and men. After a 
little while, a good number of hioules were detached 
from the mass of cattle, and driven along in a southerly 
direction, stamping and pawing up the sand with rage. 
Now, it turned out that none of the cattle-guards seemed 
very anxious to begin the ball, and satisfied themselves 
with riding about poking up the hiouUs^ or stirring the 
enormous fire, where the branding irons were heating. 
This delay seemed specially distasteful to Rambert, and 
he dashed after, or rather past, the drove of bullocks, 
pulled up Bayard a little in advance of them, sprang to 
the ground, leaving his horse loose, and seizing one of 
the most furious bullocks by the horns, actually threw 
him on the ground like a child by main force, where he 
lay kicking and struggling, but captive. Then a mighty 


Iir THE CAMARGUE. 


169 


shout of rapturous applause burst out, above which was 
heard the cry of The irons ! the irons ! ’’ and several 
other cattle-guards flew to the brazier, caught up the 
red-hot irons with the thick leather pads by which the 
handles were guarded, and rushed with them to Rambert, 
who branded the poor quivering beast with a rudely- 
shaped initial-letter on the haunch, and drove him away 
bellowing and foaming, to seek some relief by rolling in 
the marsh slime. While they were checked and headed 
by the cattle-guards, Rambert flew at one bullock after 
auother of the herd, and after many tussles brought 
them all to the ground, subjected to the cruel hot irons. 
But before they were all branded he had received three 
rather deep wounds from their horns as he struggled 
with them on the ground. 

‘‘ ^Vhat a splendid fellow ! ’’ Nasmyth exclaimed with 
intense admiration, as Rambert coolly wiped the blood 
from his third wound and bound it up tight with his 
handkerchief. What a splendid fellow ! He is as cool 
now as when he began, and just as ready to begin it all 
over again. I am very sorry it has happened so — ’’ and 
he stopped short. 

Don’t stop yourself; say out what you were think- 
ing,” said Morland, a little bitterly. You mean you 
are sorry he is not the successful one with Noel. Hang 
it all ! I am not sure that I am not sorry too ! He is 
worth a great deal more than I am, on more grounds than 
muscular Christianity, in which he beats me altogether 
hollow. Well, perhaps she will Hhink better of it,’ 


170 


INT THE CAMARGUE. 


you know, in the convent, and perhaps I may get letters. 
Very odd I don’t get one, by-the-by. I believe they have 
been stopped by ‘Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality,’ as 
suspicious foreign correspondence, eh? ” 

“Well, I can’t say; but anyhow we cannot go on 
dawdling about these marshes much longer. A very 
few warm days would make that quite an absurdity,” 
said Nasmyth. “So do you go now and make what 
sketches you want for the future from this scene, and 
then, after Les Stes. Maries, we had better pull up 
sticks. Halloa ! look out ! What is coming to pass ? 
There’s a man down ! ” 

What had come to pass was that one of the cattle- 
guards had gone in among the patriarch bulls, in search 
of one obstinate unmarked bullock, and had thereby 
stirred up the wrath of Les Rochers, who had now come 
out in one of his worst moods, screaming with rage, 
pawing up huge clumps of sand and aromatic herbs, and 
throwing them high in the air. As the clods fell down 
upon the other conscript fathers of the assembly, they 
did not see the joke, and first moved uneasily, bellowing 
to match, and then suddenly broke and spread down 
the lines, throwing everything and everybody into 
utter confusion. Les Eocliers, with his own peculiar 
vicious obstinacy, concentrated his attentions upon the 
man who had stirred him up, and having slightly 
gored his horse, the aigue plunged till he threw his 
rider, and threw him, too, straight in the path of the 
bull, who was now advancing with his head down and 
a frightful roar. The poor cattle-guard was doomed 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


171 


to death in the eyes of all present, when Nasmyth, 
with his enormous strength of arm, wrenched out a 
barrier pole from the cabaous, and rushed upon the 
palusin in the rear, seizing him by the tail, and 
battering him with good English strokes till the 
ferocious beast gave up his first object, and turned 
short round to slay his new opponent, who was greeted 
by the assembled crowds with a true southern transport 
of admiring applause. Rambert then galloped up, and 
with his cruel trident struck the bull a few sharp 
blows, and by the help of his dondazre Oriflamme, 
who had put himself on full duty as watch-dog, Les 
Rochers was driven off into a marsh thicket to recover 
his temper and assuage the smart of his wounds as 
he best could. The air, meanwhile, rang with shouts 
and cries of applause, and the cattle-guards and their 
owners gathered in crowds around the ‘‘English lord,’’ 
offering him horses, carts, brandy, and whatever was 
at their command; and the wife of the rescued cattle- 
guard, with her child in her arms, flew to kiss his 
hands, and pour upon him a shower of Provencal 
blessings. Nasmyth only laughed at them all good- 
humoredly, got his hands out of reach as soon as 
he could, and repeated that he had done nothing at * 
all, and was only too glad just to have been in the way. 
And he laughed again, in his good, English, unboastful 
way, as they got hold of -what he called his “stick,” a 
pole which none of the men there, except Rambert, 
could move, and marvelled at his power of arm. He 
then lifted his hat courteously to the women, who 


172 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


had clustered about him dike bees, and turned away to 
look for Morland, that they might make their way 
towards some shelter for the night at Les Stes. Maries. 

But Leopold had unaccountably disappeared. Na- 
smyth quested up and down, inquiring in all directions 
in vain, and at last, somewhat uneasy and vexed, — for 
the. day was going on, and he was doubtful what to do, 
— he employed some of the gypsy men to go in various 
directions t»^ards the swamps, and among the thickets 
on the river side. He began to think that when 
Leopold had been driven from his station, as the 
herd of bulls dispersed, he had taken advantage of 
the scattering to go to a distance to sketch some 
of the groups he had been intending to take while 
the morning light was on the scene. Knowing his 
enthusiasm when actually at work, and his absolute 
forgetfulness of all lapse of time, Nasmyth calmed 
his uneasiness with this idea, and having now de- 
spatched five men and boys in search, he sat down 
behind the cahaous^ near the charette occupied by 
the women belonging to the rescued cattle-guard, 
and tried to occupy himself in watching them and 
their warm-hearted delight at ‘boiling for him some 
colfee and milk, and roasting a few eggs in the wood ashes. 

But the sun went up and up, till it slowly passed 
its meridian, and then began to slope towards the west, 
and still no Morland was to be seen, nor did the mes- 
sengers return with any tidings. And the long bars 
of cranes in their flight looked like funeral pennons 
stretched across the solemn sky. 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


173 


CHAPTER XVL 

RAMBERT OFFERS HIS LIFE. 

Leopold had — as his friend justly imagined — 
wandered away to take his sketches while he might. 
He had sprung aside from Nasmyth, — not seeing the 
man thrown from his horse, — when the herd of 
palusins scattered towards him along the plain, and 
as men lose one another, and see no two details in the 
same light during a battle, so he had been driven on, 
by the rush of cattle and the pursuit of their mounted 
guards, far away from Nasmyth, and towards the 
marshy thickets to the eastward, where the extraordi- 
nary beauty of various groups and bits of color 
completely absorbed his eye and mind ; and, as usual 
with him when in the ^‘fine frenzy*’’ of painting, 
he lost all sense of time, and almost the consciousness 
of himself. He unstrapped his little knapsack, took 
out his precious little thick box of moist colors, and 
brushes, and a block, and began to jot down with his 
usual speed and facility a number of figures and their 
surroundings. At first these groups were numerous, 
and one interest was constantly exchanged for another ; 
but by degrees the people scattered away to see the 
end of the ferrade^ and there remained only cattle in 


174 


m THE CAM ARGUE. 


twos and threes, and one passing vision of Rambert, 
who glared at Leopold and then galloped away. 

Having occupied himself for some time in taking great 
pains to transfer that magnificent dark head to paper, 
Leopold wished to examine mere minutely the clumps of 
grand reeds and flowering canes, which should serve as 
future backgrounds, growing some way further on, and 
accordingly he pushed his way through the shrubby rose- 
mary and lentisk, till he found himself directly in front 
of a splendid thicket of salicor and canes in flower. Leo- 
pold had sketched them in outline and was busy filling in, 
when he saw some movement among them, heard a tram- 
pling and crashing without any visible cause, and then a 
low roar like ground thunder, which filled the air. The 
thick cane-clump split asunder, then Morland saw the 
head and horns of Les Rochers, who had been roused 
from an angry respite of sleep by his approach, and whose 
rage and wounds made him at this moment especially 
combative and terrible to look at. , 

Leopold, now fully roused, at once took in the extreme 
danger he was in. He was weaponless, not having even 
a walking-stick in his hand. His umbrella-stick he had 
left with his bag near the cahaous^ where Nasmyth, all 
unconscious, was at that moment looking on at the prepa- 
ration of his coffee. The bull, meanwhile, having made 
his survey with that peculiarly insolent stare, which is 
after the manner of bulls, stamped his feet and tore up 
the earth, preparatory to rushing forward to gore and 
toss his prey. Though not constitutionally fearless, 
Leopold was brave with the bravery of an educated gen- 


7xV THE CAMARGUE. 


175 


tleman, and as he gathered his whole strength about him 
for defence, he shut up his color-box with a sharp snap, 
and bowled it with a true cricketer’s aim straight between 
the animal’s eyes, springing directly afterwards to one or 
two dwarf oaks a little way off, behind which he thought 
he might get shelter. At the same time he set up a 
ringing halloa to call for help of any one who might be 
within hearing. Les Rochers was for the moment so 
blinded by the blow, that he did not see his foe’s last 
movement, but very soon recovering, he dashed forward 
with a hoarse roar, or almost scream, of aggravated fury, 
and nearly succeeded in pinning Leopold through the body 
against one of the oaks. He dodged, only tearing off the 
lappet of his coat, upon which the bull pawed and stamped 
with a fury which was horrible to witness. Leopold then 
shouted in a succession of Australian cboeys^ while dodg- 
ing his enemy from one tree trunk to another, and feeling 
that his strength was fast going, while the horrible beast 
seemed to grow stronger and fiercer with every fresh 
attack. He was just giving up his last hope when a loud 
crackling and crashing was heard among the reeds, and 
Bayard, with Rambert on his back, bounded forward, the 
cattle-guard wounding Les Rochers deeply on the flank 
with his trident. The two huge dogs at the same instant 
flew at his head and turned him off into the thicket, 
where they pursued him, barking and baying, but at the 
same time by no means inducing him to give up the 
attack. Rambert’s dark face seemed to Morland at that 
moment more terrible than the bull’s. He had sprung 
off his horse, and seized Leopold in his strong arms. 


176 


IK THE CAMARGUE. 


Ha ! ” he said, in a deep, low voice, we have met 
face to face, as I said. I did not think it would be so 
soon. Look yonder! There comes the bull. again, and 
when he is dangerous like that he will gore his master as 
easily as a stranger. Quick ! it is life or death between 
us two ! Will you give up Noel Privas to me ? Say 
yes, and I will put you on my horse, and save your life ! 
— quick ! 

‘‘ No, Rambert, I will not. I can but die once, but I 
will be faithful to my Love. Let me die; but be sure 
you tell her and my friend what happened to me. My 
poor Harry ! I wish I could have said just one good- 
byi^’ 

Rambert was now grasping him by the throat, to gain 
time. The crashing in the reeds had come nearer — the 
bull would be back directly — one dog was already 
killed, dying with a dismal howl ; the other was des- 
perately wounded, and he could not much longer keep 
the bull at bay. Should he let this miserable English- 
man be slain in his folly, and thus end the whole contest 
easily and at once? He deserved it richly, for putting, 
himself where he had no business to be. But what 
would Noel say to him when the Englishman was dead?.. 
How would her eyes question him ? Would she moan 
over him as she would moan over this fair-bearded pup- 
pet? What then? If Noel loved him, was not that 
enough ? Noel should be pleased and made happy. 
If he could not make her happy by his life, he would ^ 
die for her, and then, perhaps, she would know how to 
measure his great love. 


jy THE CAMARGUE. 


177 


How it happened Morland never knew, but suddenly 
he felLhimself pitched upon Bayard like a child, and a 
cut given to the barb, which sent him galloping madly 
towards the plain ; crashing among the canes, splashing 
across the reedy marshes, seeming to devour the burning 
sands. Without his cap, with torn clothes, with bleeding 
face and hands, Leopold ran his race for life, nor did the 
good horse stop till he had brought him nearly to the 
cdbaous^ where Nasmyth and the assembled crowd hailed 
him as one newly risen from death. 

But in the cane-brake the two dogs bled to death, and 
Rambert was lying on his back, with his dark, splendid’’ 
face turned towards the cloudless sky. The sun sloped 
westward, the long flight of cranes lessened in the golden 
sky, and the bittern and heron flitted, booming faintly, 
in the evening light, when they found the noble cattle- 
guard, and laid him upon a quickly-wattled bier of reeds, 
to take him to Les Stes. Maries for burial. 


178 


IN THE CAMARQUB. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

BAMBERT’S burial. — LES STES. MARIES. 

Did any one of all the throng of spectators who wit- 
nessed that burial ever forget it? I think it must have 
been before their eyes, and in their minds alw’ays. To 
begin with, could any one who has ever seen it forget Les 
Stes. Maries ? I trow not. 

What it might be at another time I cannot take upon 
myself to say, for the first aspect of a strange place 
stamps its own indelible seal upon the mind and memory 
forever after. Be it gay or sad, bright or gloomy, on 
the first impression, so will its coloring remain through 
all changes afterwards. Les Stes. Maries to me, there- 
fore, will always be one of the quaintest, brightest, most 
populous, and most startling towns that ever met my 
eyes. But then I saw it at the time of great feast. 
The unstained blue of the sea that washes its yellowing 
walls, the ramparted and turreted yellowing walls them- 
selves, and the equally sun-tinted vast pile of the marvel- 
lous old church, built up in three stories, like that of 
Assisi, are certainly neither bright nor cheerful in them- 
selves. There is, however, a warm, solemn sun-tint about 
them, which stamps their age with a kind of Eternal Pres- 
ent, like the temples of Luxor and the Egyptian Thebes. 


IN THE CAMARGUEy 


179 


But on the great, sandy shore which is washed up there., 
and in the strange, picture-like streets, people were then 
swarming like ants in an ant-hill, arid colored with every 
variety of costume. Some wore enormous flat Montpellier 
hats; some were in caps, and casquettes, and white linen 
squared head-gear ; some in bright colored, twisted hand- 
kerchief-turbans that betrayed Eastern blood; while many 
more wore the favorite crown* of broad blue or red rib- 
bon of the Arlesian girls. Pedlars, and packmen of all 
kinds, were selling, out of bright trays and boxes, chap- 
lets, rosaries, crosses, crucifixes, medals, and scapulars, 
with little framed and glazed pictures of the Three 
Marys. Everywhere the Saintins or townspeople were 
greeting the stranger visitors and pilgrims; talking, 
laughing, and flirting with them , carrying them to their 
houses to entertain them, or making little parties for the 
same end round small tables set under the old walls, or 
on the crumbling ramparts, or beneath some spreading 
fig-tree, or fantastic flowering shrub, that branched out 
of the wall and overhung the street. And the setting or 
framework of all this strange, swarming life was no less 
picture-like than the body of the picture. Every year 
many of the Saintins cover their roofs with a thick coat 
of chalk, as a defence from the glaring heat ; and these 
clean-cut, snow-white high roofs and dormers stood out 
strangely against the sombre coloring of the darker tur- 
rets and walls. And the three-tiered old church rose up 
with its towers and arcades and buttresses, commanding 

♦ The Arlesian maidens’ crown answers to the old snood of Scot- 
land. 


180 


I]^ THE CAMAEGUE. 


the whole town, and serving as a citadel and landmark, 
as well as a shrine, attracting the deepest devotion for 
many leagues round. 

Towards this church, furrowing a lane between the 
rows of blind, and lame, and maimed, and smitten with 
all types of mysterious and terrible disease, wound Ram- 
bert’s burial procession. First, the lofty processional 
cross, a curious old carved crucifix belonging to the con- 
fraternity, was borne by one of the brotherhood, and on 
each side of it others of the brethren, bearing three-sided 
lanterns on long poles, and strange-looking staves topped 
with fleur-de-lys. Then a long file of brothers, called 
Black Penitents, chanting in very rich, deep voices the 
ofiBce for the dead. The open bier, wreathed roughly, 
but with marvellous taste, with cypress, feathered reeds, 
and white asters, upon which lay the giant form of Ram- 
bert, with his hands clasped over a crucifix, and his 
dark, noble face stamped with an expression of perfect 
peace, was borne by six cattle-guards of the Camargue, 
each with the black cloak of the brotherhood, but no 
other signs of mourning. Immediately after the bier, 
led by black-bound ropes, came Bayard, saddled, Ori- 
flamme, the dondaire of Rambert’s herd, and his two 
watch-dogs, walking slowly and sorrowfully, with drooped 
heads, and tails depressed, as if they fully shared the 
general grief. Privas, one of the first to follow, could 
not hold up his head, and his whole frame was so bowed 
down and smitten with sorrow, that he looked as if ten 
years had been suddenly added to his life. After these, 
the chief mourners, followed the remainder of the guards 


JxV THE CAMAEGUE. 


181 


and cattle-owners of the region, then, a long line of 
Black Penitents, and lastly, the cure and clergy, in 
black stolps and copes. Every one following the bier 
had a lighted candle in his hand. Among the crowd who 
pressed after the clergymen, the foremost were Nasmyth 
and Morland, whose grief for the dead cattle-guard was 
scarcely less keen than that of any present, though it 
was characteristically undemonstrative and controlled. 
The conviction that Rambert had given his life up for 
him for Noel’s sake — the highest token of love that any 
man can give, and that one which raises him the nearest 
to One who offered his life for the world — had opened 
Leopold’s heart to stronger feeling and deeper emotion 
than he had ever yet experienced. Had he at this crisis 
possessed, like the rough cattle-guard, whom a girl’s 
fancy had despised, a divinely-taught, definite faith upon 
which to fall back, Morland might have been for life a 
sadder and wiser man. Now he was deeply impressed, 
but, as usual, the impression wore away. 

And now the body was in the church before the altar, 
and the chanting, under the high vaulted roof, took a 
more solemn tone. The incense floated upwards in a 
slow, fragrant cloud, and the priests sprinkled holy water 
and prayed. Often as Nasmyth and Morland had heard 
the words, they now seemed instinct with fresh meaning. 

Ego sum resurrectio et vita : qui credit in Me, etiam 
si mortuus fuerit, vivet : et omnis, qui vivit, et credit in 
Me, non morietur in aeternum.’’ 

‘‘Requiem aeternam dona ei Domine 

“ Et lux perpetua luceat ei.’’ 


182 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


Then they took up the dead, and lowered him into the 
deep grave made ready for him, heaped it up with the 
dry sand, and trod it firmly down. And all the women 
came forward, and threw wreaths and cypress boughs 
upon it, till it was piled up into a green, fragrant 
mound. 

But the two Englishmen came the last of all, and they 
laid gently on the mound a beautiful garland twined^ 
round with an inscription in French, which all could 
read, — Greater love than this no man hath, that a man 
should lay down his life for his friends.” 

The next day every one in the town was astir very 
early, and the church was crowded with pilgrims and 
their friends. It was the eve of the Feast, ^ and circles 
of people were clustered thick about the confessionals, 
which were served by not only the cure and his vicaires, 
but by a number of the neighboring parish priests, and a 
few regulars, or priests of monastic orders, who had come 
in to take their turn in the relays that were necessary to 
get through the enormous number of confessions to be 
heard. 

The wide reach of sand spreading before the almost 
wave-washed yellow walls of the old building was cov- 
ered with biers, litters, charettes with awnings, and all 
kinds of devices for bringing in the lame, and blind, and 
wasted sick, who expected to be miraculously cured on 
the morrow, when the shrines containing the relics of 
the Three Marys would be lowered down for them to 
touch. If the sick and their means of transport were 

♦ The Festival of the Three Marys is kept on the 25th of May. 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


183 


too numerous to be got 'into the church, the priests would 
go out to them later, and hear their confessions on the 
strand. 

Very wonderful was the inside aspect of that old 
church, built up in three stages at the east end, the two 
uppermost of which are reached by winding stairs curi- 
ously twisted round the shafts of pillars. Behind the 
altar, the first stage above the ground was of considerable 
extent, and many of the most disabled or sick, or such as 
brought special letters from bishops or ex-votos of price, 
were carried up there on the feast to be nearest the holy 
relics. The uppermost stage, where the cypress-wood 
shrines were kept, was carefully secured with strong 
doors, which only one of the priests, whose charge it 
was, was allowed to unlock at the appointed times. 

The whole space of the church walls, from floor to 
roof, was crusted with ex-votos of all kinds and shapes 
and materials. Gold and silver hearts, or hearts of rock 
crystal set in gold, with gold, and silver, and crystal 
lamps, were the most general of those of any real value. 
The rest were made up of legs, arms, eyes, ears and 
hearts of every conceivable size and grotesqueness ; vary- 
ing in material from thin silver, or silver gilt, to wax 
and wood. Myriads of marble and stone tablets, and 
pictures portraying every imaginable accident, and the 
deliverance from it at the intercession of the Three 
Marys, were also let into the walls, pavement, pillars, 
and even the roof. The effect of this singular hetero- 
geneous mosaic, softened by the influence of time, and 
dimmed by the undertone of the darkened church, and 


184 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


its variety of sub-lights, was nearly as solemn as that 
of St. Mark’s at Venice. Nasmyth felt the influence 
of the place sink into his soul ; and, as he knelt in the 
church, he could not help casting a glance mentally at 
his OAvn country and circle of belongings and intimate 
friends who had never seen, who could never imagine, 
anything outside that circle, and whose minds were rig- 
idly bound within the magic of its small extent. Igno- 
rance, and superstition, and blindness, would be the 
gentlest terms in their vocabulary for the wonderful 
motions now developed before him. Rambert was, no 
doubt, ‘‘ignorant.” Of later years he could scarcely 
read or write, and of the reasons and proofs of his faith, 
he could probably give as slender an account as of his 
own practice of its duties. “Superstitious,” too, he 
doubtless was, for nothing would ever induce him to 
drive his cattle to fresh pastures on a Friday ; he be- 
lieved in charms when they were sick, and tied witch- 
herbs to their horns to keep them from falling under en- 
chantment every spring. He also believed in the evil 
eye, and had a charm against it tied round his own neck, 
though it was nothing worse than the first few lines of 
St. John’s Gospel written on a paper, doubled up and 
sewn into a little bag. “Blind,” too, he might be 
called, for he did not think any but Catholics were 
Christians, or able to be saved and enter heaven. So 
ran the tenor of Nasmyth’s thoughts, as he deeply 
mourned in his heart over the grand cattle-guard, 
whose happiness they had destroyed by their coming, 
and now had deprived him of his life. 


IJSr THE CAMARGUE. 


185 


And how, meanwhile, was Morland feeling? Na- 
smyth glanced towards him, wondering if now, at last, 
Leo would feel deeply, would permanently change his 
light, roving, butterfly course, and buckle to, as a good 
man and true should for the rest of his life. Morland 
had certainly been deeply, or rather vividly^ impressed 
by Eambert’s death and his own escape. He thought he 
should now ‘^buckle to,’’ as Nasmyth was always say- 
ing, and make Noel really happy as a wife. If there 
were some sacrifice in the matter, well, he had run his 
own head into it, and he could not, and would not, 
draw back. If his father made it very disagreeable to 
him, he would cut the whole concern and stay out in 
France, sending his pictures home every year. He 
should make an artist’s home in Paris, high up in some 
airy old hotel in the Faubourg St. Germain, where 
Noel would be like a sunbeam to him all day long, and 
he should get at the secret of those wonderful French 
gray undertones, and be able to teach them something 
brighter and less genre, A man with genius could 
make his home and iiis mark anywhere, and his sis- 
ters would be glad enough to come over and stay with 
his little wife, whom they would pet and admire all 
day long. Poor Rambert ! What a grand fellow he 
was, and how sorry he was for having spoiled his life 
and brought him to such an end! What a grand, 
noble fellow ! It was just like a story, from beginning 
to end. And perhaps it had ended well, after all. 
Rambert was very fierce and terrible when his blood 
was up, and he might even have taken it into his head 


186 


IN THE CAM ARGUE, 


to murder poor little Noel, or himself. He should not 
at all enjoy being murdered; life was too bright, and 
sunny, and high-colored just now for him to enjoy being 
put out of the way. After all, perhaps, it was for the 
best, and he would think so, and act as if it were true. 
Meanwhile, what a glorious, rich undertone was now 
spreading through the church ! He must make the 
most of all these shifting revelations, — this letting out, 
as it were, of secret after secret of color. Such was the 
course of Leopold’s mind. 


nr THE CAMABQUE. 


187 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

‘‘farewell, my love, my life.” 

“ If you please, Mother Abbess, there is a strange 
gentleman at the 'portiere^ asking for Mile. Privas.” 

“ What is his name ? ” 

“I do not know, Mother Abbess. He gave me this 
little bit of printed paper, but I donH think there is 
much in it.” The portress handed the Superior a card, 
on which were printed simply two words in very small 
type, — 

Leopold Morland. 

Scribbled below the name in pencil was, “ Can I see 
Mademoiselle Privas? ” 

“That will do. Sister Maura; I will go down 
myself.” 

The simple portress opened her eyes till they wero 
quite round at the fact of Mother Abbess going down 
herself to the parlor to see a gentleman, whom, indeed, 
she only called a gentleman, with the universal courtesy 
of the country; w'hile in truth she thought him some 
sort of workman, with his burnt straw hat, and gray 
linen blouse, and long, tanned beard ; for Sister 
Maura's eyes had travelled no higher than the beard. 


188 


m THE CAMARGUE, 


She abstained, of course, from unnecessary words, and, 
merely bowed low as she trotted away with her keys. 

The abbess wiped the pen with which she had been 
writing, unbuttoned and let down her long ample sleeves, 
and took her way with her accustomed slow, trained step 
along the galleries and down the stairs to the parlor, 
opened the door, and there saw Leopold standing up 
beside the stone fireplace, apparently studying an old 
print of the Three Marys at the Sepulchre, but really 
counting the moments till Noel should appear. He 
turned round hastily, stretching out his hand, but coming 
face to face with the stately figure in flowing Benedictine 
habit, he drew back, instantly recovered himself and 
bowed low, instinctively recognizing the Superior of the 
convent. 

am very sorry to disturb this peaceful place, 
madame, but I am about to return to England, and I 
wished to see Mademoiselle Privas before I left France.’^ 

“ You are M. Morland, I suppose? ’’ said the abbess. 
‘‘ I have heard of you ; I am not sorry to see you my- 
self, and to have a few minutes’ conversation. How long 
have you to stay in the town? ” 

I must get on to Nismes this afternoon, madame. 
My friend is staying at Les Stes. Maries for the feast 
to-mOrrow, and then will join me at Nismes.” 

“ I will, then, be very brief,” said the abbess. ‘‘ And, 
also, I think it will be best to speak as frankly as possi- 
ble, with your leave.” 

“It will be the truest kindness, madame,” said Leo- 
pold. “I believe I have the honor of speaking to the 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


189 


Superior, but I am so ignorant as not to know your right 
title. 

“I am generally called Lady Abbess,’’ she said, with 
a smile; ‘^but that is of no consequence at all. M. 
Morland, I think I should begin by saying that I know 
that you have engaged Noel Privas to marry you, with- 
out her father’s consent, and in so doing you have not 
acted, according, to the custom of our country, in a right 
way. You should first have spoken to her father, and 
especially as Mile. Privas is very young.” 

Accurately speaking, Lady Abbess, I know I ought 
to have done so. But in practice, I think, even your 
experience in life must show you that these kind of things 
are generally hurried forward without premeditation. 
With us English, especially, men and women are so 
universally accustomed to settle their own love matters 
with one another, and afterwards to refer to their parents, 
that I allowed myself to be carried farther than I in- 
tended. When, afterwards, I spoke to M. Privas, he 
certainly did not — as I should say — behave well to 
me.” 

I dare say. He is a man of strong feelings, and he 
thought you had undermined his authority. A parent 
in Provence, M. Morland, is the supreme judge in his 
family affairs, and we should not wish this tradition to be 
changed. M. Privas has also, I understand, made other 
arrangements for his daughter’s future. Do you not 
think, M. Morland, that Noel’s happiness would be bet- 
ter secured by her marrying in her own class? ” 

“ I could not in any case agree that Noel would be 


190 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


happier married to any one but myself, Lady Abbess/’ 
replied Morland, with quickness. Then, recovering his 
ordinary gentleness, he added, I am sorry to tell you — 
sorry, I mean, for the cause, which I assure you is a 
most real sorrow to both my friend and myself — lam 
grieved to tell you that the cattle-guard, Rambert, whom 
M. Privas had chosen as his son-in-law, is dead and was 
buried here to-day.’^ 

‘‘Dead!” exclaimed the abbess. “That young, 
strong, gigantic man ! Is it possible ? How shock- 
ingly sudden ! ” She folded her hands for a moment, 
and said, in a low voice, “ ‘ Requiescat in pace. Re- 
quiem aeternam dona ei Domine; et lux perpetua luceat 
ei ! ’ That, then, was why the bells were tolling so long. 
The portress asked our good father, but he could only say 
that the confraternities seemed to be following some 
great burial, and that ‘ un mort’ had been brought in 
from the country. Well, sir, I will not detain you. 
The poor man’s death, of course, gives you a fresh open- 
ing with M. Privas, but there are other difficulties. 
Your religion, first of all. Should you be willing to bo 
married in the Catholic Church, and to have your chil- 
dren brought up Catholics ? I should tell you that I am 
Noel’s godmother, and you know, with us, the marraine 
does not only give a silver cup or an embroidered robe, 
but has also to answer for her god-child's faith and mor- 
als. Do your parents consent to your marriage, in the 
only way we can allow her to marry, with a Catholic? ” 

“Lady Abbess, I grieve to tell you that my only 
parent, my father, will not consent to my marrying a 


Iir THE CAMARGUE. 


191 


Catholic, nor is he, in fact, friendly to my marrying at 
all at this minute. The question of religion is, of 
course, one great difficulty, though I think, with him, 
that could be got over ; but there are also money obsta- 
cles, -which are not so easy to overcome. I am the eldest 
of a family of six, and though my father’s income is a 
handsome one, his expenses are also very considerable. 
I have received this morning a long-delayed letter from 
him, absolutely refusing his consent to my marrying at 
present, and strongly advising me to give up my engage- 
ment altogether ; and as soon as I had read it I immedi- 
ately set off to try to see Noel and to make known all 
the circumstances of our case to you. I must own to you 
that I am much surprised, as well as heartily grieved, at 
the tone of my father’s letter, for I thought that he 
wbuld see that I was in earnest, and that this marriage 
would be for my real good.” 

“You think that if you married Noel you would set- 
tle down to your work, and make something of your 
life?” 

I do. Lady Abbess; and more than that, I think — 
I think I should settle down to be a much wiser and 
better man.” 

“ I do not doubt it,” replied the abbess, kindly, fully 
appreciating both the words and the color which spread 
over Leo’s face as he frankly spoke them. “ I trust, 
also, that Noel’s example would not be lost on you, for, 
indeed, M. Morland, she is a good and most innocent, 
pure-minded child. If she must marry, — which I 
suppose is the state of life she is fittest for, — I 


192 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


should be glad to know that she had a good, high- 
minded husband, who would carefully guard her from 
evil. But what do you propose to do now, after 
receiving your father’s letter? ” 

‘‘I must hasten back to England immediately, and 
try to shake his purpose,” replied Leopold, quickly. 
‘‘I am his eldest son; he is a most affectionate father, 
and I have an excellent sister who, if I can win her 
to take up my cause, will do far more for me than I 
can for myself” 

And if he will not listen to you ? ” 

Then I shall take my own course. I am old enough 
now to choose and judge for myself” 

‘^Yes, of course you are amply majeur^^^ said the 
abbess; “but have you any property absolutely your 
own?” 

“About — between four and five thousand francs 
yearly,” replied Leopold. 

“ But that is good, very good,” she said. “You are, 
then, quite an independent man? ” 

“In this country I should be so,” replied Leopold, 
smiling. “In England it would go but a very little 
way towards the expenses of a household. But that 
was my second idea, Lady Abbess; and if my father 
will not listen to reason, I shall make up my mind 
to come back, and live somewhere in the south of 
France, where it is possible, and healthy, and send 
my pictures every year to England. This is what I 
should like to talk over with Noel now, with your 
leave.” 


m THE CAMARGUEt 


193 


^‘You have it fully,’’ said the abbess; ^‘and as I 
know your time is limited, I will send her to you at 
once. I shall therefore bid you good-by, M. Morland, 
and we shall hope before very long to see you in this 
country again.” 

Leopold bowed as he would have done to a princess, 
for the true dignity and worth of Mere Bauget had won 
his respect, no less than her excellent common sense had 
commanded his admiration. 

It was not long before the swift approach of other 
sounding feet was heard in the corridor, and almost 
before the door flew open Noel’s two hands were in 
his. More lovely, more bright, more charming than 
ever ; soon all in tears at his narrative of Rambert’s 
end; all radiant with speaking smiles and blushes for 
him and his deliverance ; and then with her shadowing 
eyes more shadowed, and the paleness even more speak- 
ing than her blushes, as he related to her the details of 
his father’s letter, reading to her the least objectionable 
and unreasonable parts, and softening the terms of his 
irrational and imorant dislike to herself. The strens^th. 
and discretion, and thoughtfulness Noel had gained in 
her interval of rest were very striking to Morland. He 
had thought her perfect before, though it was rather the 
perfection of exceeding prettiness, and the added wilful 
young grace, as kittens and fawns are perfect in every 
movement. But now Noel appeared to him to have 
grown towards some higher life, touched with finer and 
more impalpable issues ; and while his love for her was 
even tenderer than ever, Leopold felt an increasing 


194 


XZV THE CAMARGUE. 


reverence for the lovely womanhood that seemed, like 
Undine’s, to have found its soul. In deeply interesting 
talk the minutes sped away ; and, long before they had 
ended the discussion of their plans, their mutual im- 
pressions as to the future, and the long catalogue of 
observances for Noel on Leopold’s part, the westerly 
sunbeams were shining on the wall, the last grains of 
sand had run out from the great hour-glass on the table, 
and the upper half was empty of a single grain. It was 
Noel who pointed to it. 

‘‘You must go, love ; you will never get to Nismes if 
you do not hurry to Lunel, now.” ^ 

“Yes, I must go,” replied Leopold, but holding her 
still, as if he could never release her from his hold. 
“Good-by, my birdie! My muscadelo of Provence I 
Never forget me in your prayers, Noel.” 

“I never do, I never could! Why, Leo mine, what 
are you thinking of ? ” 

“My heart is so heavy, darling. Oh, if I could 
but take you with me ! God help me ! It is too 
hard!” 

“Trust in God, Leo mine! Take heart; you will 
soon come back to your own one. God guard you and 
lead you, my own, own Leo! ” 

Morland vaguely felt, through his anguish, how 
strangely their parts seemed reversed at this moment. 
How he drooped with nameless fears, while this young 
creature held him up as a strong staff and pillar, on 
which he absolutely leaned. It was she who, with 
* The railway goes from Lunel to Aigues Mortes now. 


7JV THE CAMARGUE. 


195 


her arm within his, drew him along the corridor and 
through the entrance-vestibule, and across the broad 
flags of the mossy courtyard. At a word from her, 
who seemed his guardian angel, he was drawn also for 
an instant within the old solemn church, and knelt 
beside her with one brief heart-prayer, before the altar. 
And on the worn doorstep of the church Noel gave him 
a last kiss; and while she stood framed with the old 
fretted arch, he strode across the flags to the gate ; 
then the wicket door closed upon him, and he was 
gone. 

Was there no dumb aching in NoePs heart, telling 
her she should see his face no more ? 


196 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE FEAST OF THE THREE MARYS. 

Nasmyth, as Leopold had said, was waiting on at Les 
Stes. Maries for the feast. He had been exceedingly 
sorry for the elder Morland’s letter; for, not satisfied 
with Anne’s moderation and kindness, he had written 
most harshly himself in his first vexation and hurry; 
and it was Nasmyth who had urged Leopold to go to 
Aigues Mortis, and ask Mere Bauget’s advice. But he 
could not be very sorry that his more mercurial and im- 
pressionable companion should not be with him during 
the festival ceremonies. Never had Nasmyth been more 
impressed by the current of popular devotion than now ; 
and he felt as if he really needed to take the full good 
of it, and turn the time and opportunity to the utmost 
account. He was up and in the church soon after dawn, 
and placed himself conveniently where he would not be 
pushed and hustled away by the crowd, and where he 
could well witness the descent of the relics from the up- 
per chapel. There was another thing, too, by which he 
wished to profit, which was the short address, giving the 
traditional account of the first coming of the Three 
Marys to Provence, and how it fell out that they were 
buried in the Camargue. Nasmyth had hunted up and 


197 


m THE CAM ARGUE. 

read everything he could find on the subject, and had 
amassed quite a collection of curious old legends and 
local traditions, having gone up to Les Baux while Mor- 
land went to Aigues Mortes, and examined the Cliapelle 
des Trots Maries or three gigantic figures carved in 
relief under the castle of that unique city of the dead, 
i^t the annual feast, he was told, a short account of its 
origin was always preached by one of the monks who 
came into the town to hear the confessions of the pil- 
grims. 

Meanwhile, the church gradually filled fuller and 
fuller, as a lake rises by the silent influx of some hidden 
stream, and masses were going on at all the side chapels. 
Every half hour some fresh priest came out of the 
sacristies, vested, and a new mass began, announced by 
the silvery tongue of an unobtrusive little bell. And at 
every mass there were fresh communions, and the fervor 
and devotion of the people, closely packed as they were, 
seemed to increase instead of abating. At last a larger 
bell rang from somewhere ; the candles were lit at the 
high altar, and another stream of worshippers and a new 
stir seemed to flow into the densely-crowded church. 

The mass began, and took its usual calm course 
through Introit, Gloria, Epistle, and Gospel, and then 
there followed a pause. Nasmyth looked up, and found 
that a tall, thin, white-habited monk was standing just 
inside the altar rails, facing him. His face recalled to 

* Traditionally said to commemorate the coming of the saints to 
Les Baux, and being driven away, after which the town was ravaged - 
by a dreadful plague. 


198 


m THE CAMAROUE. 


him Savonarola : it was strong-featured, piercing, with a 
large but well-defined lower lip. It was a well-known 
Dominican father, and, in a clear, distinct, rapid utter- 
ance, full of an earnestness that could at will rise to 
passion, he began to tell the story of the Three Marys. 

The sun had now fully risen, and long, slender rays 
came sloping through some upper window, and, falling 
aslant the picture-like higher chapels, fell on the shorn, 
dark crown and powerful face of the monk, and scattered 
colored fragments over his white scapular. They glanced 
on the silver chains of the lamps and the laden orange 
trees in the sanctuary, while the whole dark mass of the 
people were in shadow. As the clear, deep tones of the 
voice began the story, Nasmyth felt as if he were borne 
away into some other world and age than the present, or 
as if he were dreaming a long dream. 

‘^Long ago, very long ago; nearly two thousand 
years now,’’ — so the voice which seemed to Nasmyth the 
echo of some old dream was saying, — ‘Hhe Pharisees 
and chief priests were much angered, after they had 
crucified Christ, with certain of his friends and con- 
stant companions, — Martha and Mary, and Lazarus, and 
Sidonius the man born blind, and Trophimus, and Maxi- 
min, and Mary of Salome, and Mary the mother of 
James, whom Herod had slain with the sword. These 
faithful companions of Christ were therefore seized upon, 
and bound, and carried away to the sea-shore, where 
they were thrust into a wretched boat, and pushed off 
from the land, without sails, oars, or rudder, to be driven 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


199 


wherever the winds should choose. The women wept as 
they saw the blessed land of their birth, the beloved 
hills of Judea and Galilee, and their towns and vil- 
lages, vanishing from sight. They fixed their tearful 
eyes on Mount Carmel, which was sinking towards the 
horizon ; and even the strong men who were with them 
looked long and gravely at the mountain of the great 
Prophet, and at the broad plain of Esdraelon, which 
they were never more to see. ‘ How shall we sing the 
Lord’s song in a strange land ? ’ said one to another ; 
but Trophimus answered, ‘ Let us praise the Lord, for 
his mercy endureth forever ! ’ 

^‘Then they began to chant the sweet Psalms of 
David, and were strengthened and comforted in heart. 

‘‘But soon a dreadful storm arose, such as are well 
known in our seas, and the little band was exposed to 
all its insane fury. Tlie mistral hissed along the tops 
of the waves, till they were lashed into one sheet of 
foam ; the waves themselves rose up mountains high, 
and the rudderless boat was driven here and there, like 
a leaf in the autumn blast. 

“ Seeing that they were all now rushing to their end, 
Lazarus cried out aloud to God, and said, ‘0 Lord, 
Jesus Christ! Thou didst raise me once from death 
itself, and from the cerements of the grave ; wilt thou 
not deliver me now, when we are bent only on thine 
own errand, — to preach thee to the heathen nations?’ 
And immediately the tossing bark subsided safely into 
the trough of the waves, and the mountainous waves, 
seething like oil, ran together and went down, and the 


200 


IK THE CAMARGUE. 


hand of God threw a curb over the rising of the great 
deep. The boat was soon quietly driven on a broad, 
sandy shore, and the banished ones landed, and knelt 
down to give thanks to God who had delivered them 
from instant death. 

‘‘Then they ascended the river bank, and began to 
preach and teach the country people to know Christ 
and to forsake their idols and unclean life ; and so 
passed through all the villages and hamlets of the 
Rhone side till they came to Arles, — a great and 
magnificent new-built city, the glory of Lower Gaul, 
having its baths, and circus, and race-course, and 
theatres, and a crowded, pleasure-loving, luxurious 
population. Just as the little band of Christians 
came into the market-place, exceedingly wicked games 
and dances were going on, in honor of the lewd 
pagan idol Venus, whose snow-white statue stood high, 
wreathed with roses, before them, with the shameless 
women dancing about it. 

“But when Trophimus saw this dreadful sight, ho 
raised his voice till it ran^ high above the noise of the 

o o 

viols and the shouts of the applauding throng, and 
besought the men of Arles to hear what he had to 
declare, for he could tell them of the one true God, 
while they were only worshipping devils and evil 
powers. And as he went on speaking, boldly preaching 
Christ, and showing that he alone was God, the idol 
shrieked with a loud cry, and fell headlong, breaking in 
pieces, and rolled down the steps of the theatre. Then 
arose a mighty cry from the vast multitude, and thou- 


IjV' the camargue. 


201 


sands fell on their knees and asked to be baptized that 
day in Arles. 

After that great and signal victory, the joyful 
Apostolic band divided, and took each one the lot 
appointed and chosen out for him by the Spirit of God. 
Trophimus remained in the city and became Bishop of 
Arles, where also he was martyred, shedding his blood 
for the faith where he had first baptized. Martha with 
Marcellus went to Tarascon, and converted all that town 
and neighborhood by delivering them from a monster ; 
Maximin journeyed southward to Marseilles. The three 
Marys also taught all the poor among the hills between 
Marseilles and Arles, and the blessed penitent, Magda- 
lene, took refuge for thirty years in a cave above 
Aubagne. There, as is well known, her unceasing 
tears were commemorated by a trickling stream which 
sprang up in her cave, where the drops may be heard, 
falling one by one, at this day.^ 

‘^But after Magdalene's long penance of love was 
ended, the three aged Marys were carried, as by one 
inspiration, across the Ehone into the wildest region 
of the Camargue, where they gave up their lives 
peacefully, and went to receive their crown. But no 
man knew of their resting-place for many generations, 
till the good King Rene, of Provence, was warned in 
a vision of their place of burial. He rose up with 
all his court, and what bishops and clergy could be 
gathered together in haste, and they rode on horse- 

* The cave of St. Mary Magdalene, near Aubagne, is called La 
Sainte Baume. 


202 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


back across the wild Camargue, till a light shining 
above the tangled thicket showed them where the 
relics lay. 

“ Then they were reverently gathered into rich 
shrines and sealed; and this very church in which 
we are met to honor them was quickly raised, and 
those very same relics have been lowered once in 
each year upon all the sick and maimed who are 
brought to these shrines to be made whole.’’ 

The voice ceased, and the whole church seemed to 
unfold and blossom with stir and moving life, and a 
dumb, inarticulate sound rose up and floated above the 
people, as when thick woods burst into green life and 
the hum of insects in spring. But the mass went on 
its course, and all were hushed into one vast silence, as 
the priest lifted the sacred Host and chalice, and 
finished the service. It was scarcely over before a 
hymn burst, like a flood of light and color, from the 
crowd. An old hymn, quaint and strange it was, — 
partly like a battle-song, partly like the wail of Welsh 
harps mourning for the glories of the time gone by. 
Every one sang it, — the old men with their quavering 
falsetto, the young men in their rich bass, the women, 
the boys, the youngest of the children, — all were 
singing with heart and soul, and rocking backwards 
and forwards as they sang. When the hymn had gone 
on some time, the Dominican father and the cure, 
with his white hair, came out of the sacristy in 
surplices and stoles, and went slowly up the winding 


IK THE CAMARGVE* 


203 


stairs. Instantly the hymn changed to long, loud 
cries of Grace! grace! 0 grandes saintes, amies de 
Dieu et nos amies, grace a nous pecheurs.’’ * 

These cries fell into a kind of double chant, swelling 
louder and louder, till the most powerful organ could 
not have outsounded this extraordinary human music, 
the great suffering Vox Humana crying aloud to Heaven 
for mercy and pity. 

The priests had opened the upper doors and knelt for 
some minutes absorbed in prayer. The old cure^s 
snow-white head could be seen, bent low, and the 
tears stood on his cheeks, for he loved his people, and 
there were some among them, sorely smitten and 
troubled, for whom he was praying with his whole 
loving heart. 

Then they rose up and began to lower the rich 
shrines of carved old cypress wood slowly down fram 
the roof by their worn pulleys and chains. As the old 
crumbling but richly-carved caskets came nearer and 
nearer within reach, the whole multitude swayed with 
bent heads or prostrated till the church floor looked like 
a vast field of some ripening grain blown and furrowed 
by the wind ; while still louder and louder rose the 
cries from the maimed and their friends, “ Grace ! 
grace ! 0 grandes saintes, Saintes Maries, amies de 

Dieu et nos amies, priez pour nous pauvres 
pecheurs ! ’’ f 

* “ A favor ! a favor ! O great saints, the friends of God and our 
friends, show favor to us poor sinners ! ” 

t “ A favor! a favor! O great saints, holy Marys, the friends of 
God and our friends, pray for us poor sinners ! ” 


204 


IN THE CAMAEGUE. 


Nasmyth had planted himself purposely close to a 
group of blind men, a lame boy, and a young woman 
looking like death, whose friends had brought her in a 
rude litter of twisted canes. During the mass he had 
watched this poor girl with ashy cheeks attentively, 
thinking that she would die in the church ; and at last, 
to keep her from fainting or dying outright, — for the 
one seemed as likely as the other, — he had given her 
mother the little brandy-flask he always carried, and 
had seen her recovered by some drops from it being 
poured down her throat. This group had been among 
the most eager watchers for the descent of the shrines, 
and were nearly the first to grasp them as they came 
within reach, crying out, with the utmost earnestness, 
Grace, 0 Saintes Maries ! nous ne sorames pas dignes, 
mais grace a nous pauvres pecheurs ! ’’ 

Then Nasmyth saw the start, heard the cry, 0 
mother ! ” and he saw the girl first sitting on the 
side of the litter, and then kneeling with her mother’s 
arm clasped round her, mingling thanksgiving and 
tears and prayers all in one. He saw the lame boy 
clasp his hands above his head and throw down his 
stafi*, kneeling before the altar as if in ecstasy, beside 
the man no longer blind, who had once more looked at 
the face of his child, and would go home with seeing 
eyes and a thankful heart. There were many, also, he 
saw in the church who were not cured, and who broke 
out, after the shrines tvere drawn up, into bitter weeping 
and lamentation, lamenting that the Grace ’’had passed 
them by. Others, also not cured, went further in their 


IN THE GAMARGUE. 


205 


passionate disappointment, and uttered blasphemous 
words, and made indignant remonstrances with the 
saints, because they had not granted their prayer, 
threatening even to break their rosaries and burn their 
scapulars, and take to more evil ways in revenge. 

The 'Dominican monk and the other priests diligently 
sought these out, rebuking and reasoning gently with 
them, and striving to show them that, as long as such 
conduct as this was possible to them, God, who knows 
all hearts, could never bless them or answer their 
prayers. 

Nasmyth, still feeling as if he were in a dream, took 
his way home from the church to the old inn, through 
the swarming streets, now full of the rejoicing and 
thanksgiving crowd, chatting, laughing, recounting the 
address to one another, gossiping over the sick, cured, 
and the uncured, who — poor things ! — had to pray for 
more faith, and wait to be cured next time. The 
evening lights, so red, so purple, so gold-flecked, so 
altogether marvellous on the Mediterranean shores, 
were now bathing the old town and the triple-piled 
church, and the yellow ramparts, with a rainbow-tinted 
flood of glory. Donkeys and mules were standing 
about, laden with great sacks and baskets of red and 
yellow oranges, of the huge fragrant lemons, or rather 
citrons of that coast, of pomegranates and enormous 
sweet African melons and gourds, which long latteen-sailed 
boats bring in to Les Stes. Maries and all the little 
villages along the coast. Everybody was eating cool 
oranges and pomegranates to refresh themselves after 


206 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


their many hours in the hot church, and cups and 
gourds of lemonade were being handed about. Plenty 
of cigars and cigarettes, too, were being smoked, whose 
half-fragrant smell was rather agreeable than otherwise. 
But there was not the slightest approach to drunkenness, 
or even wine-drinking ; no loose talk, no least evidence 
of any free conduct between the brown, Greek-faced 
men and the merry, laughing girls. The continuous 
roll of talk, the sound of the human voice, the inter- 
change and playful fire of news and ideas, the catching 
of a thought almost half-way, and tossing it back, a 
little altered, like a shuttlecock to its owner, — all the 
characteristics which evidently ran in the very blood 
of these part Greek, part Saracen, part Gallic south- 
erners, so wrought that talking was the one absolute 
necessity of their daily lives. 

“And these things I have seen with my own eyes 
and heard with my own ears — my English eyes and 
my English ears — ^ in the latter half of the nineteenth 
century,’’ Nasmyth was saying to himself, as he 
strolled leisurely towards the inn. “Who would 
believe me if I wrote it all down, or if I tried to con- 
vey anything of the impression it has made upon me ? 
All I can say is, that I wish all Great and ^ Greater ’ 
Britain could, just for once, turn out and see what I 
have seen to-day. I think my countrymen would say 
there were things yet palpable to the senses not so very 
far from home that are altogether undreamt of in their 
philosophy.” 


m THE GAMAnOUE, 


207 


CHAPTER XX. 

ANNE MORLAND SPEAKS HER MIND. 

‘‘Oh, I^am so glad you are come in, papa!” said 
Anne Morland. “ Here’s a letter from Leo, from Paris. 
What a scribbled direction it is ! Do let us hear when 
he is coming.” 

“ I am very glad,” was Mr. Morland’s single remark, 
and he looked really relieved. He hastily opened the 
envelope, and exclaimed, “ They will both be here to- 
morrow. I am really glad.” 

“To-morrow! We shall all be at Teddington,” ob- 
served Car Chetwynd, in a vexed undertone* 

“We shall have got back, papa, shall we not?” said 
Anne. “ I will stay at home, shall I ? ” 

“What! Teddington?” Why, they will go with 
us, of course. They get to Boulogne to-night, and cross 
to-morrow morning at eight o’clock. I shall make them 
help to row us down.” 

“ Poor Leo ! I think I see him ! ” said Janet, 
laughing. “He will offer to steer, and sit at the stern, 
lazily holding the ropes, and talking in a very low voice, 
quite worn out with the exertion.” 

“ I don’t think he will get so far as that,” said Caryl. 
“Leo always leaves the steering part of the business to 


208 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


Harry. I think Harry will steer and talk all the time 

too.’’ 

Come, you chattering Jack, now take yourself off 
to the schoolroom,” said their father. am going to 
have a long talk with Anne ; and mind, there’s no ad- 
mittance here again, except on the most special business. 
Car, my dear, would you mind going with Lettice to the 
South Kensington, to see if she has got her drawing 
medal? I believe the lists are out by this tin\e.” 

Car made a curious little moue behind her tea-cup, 
which her uncle did not see ; but instantly said, ‘‘Oh, 
certainly, uncle ; and I suppose we may call for the 
books at Mudie’s as we come back ? Did you make 
out the list, Anne ? ” ^ 

“Yes, dear; it is under the weight, on the writing- 
table.” 

Car gracefully glided to the writing-table, took the 
list from under the square of Pentelican marble, and 
noiselessly left the room. 

“ I fear Leo is none the better for my letter to him,” 
said Mr. Morland, when the door had shut. “I am a 
little sorry now that I said more than that he must come 
home and talk this ridiculous fancy over with us.” 

“ I did not know you had said anything at all your- 
self,” replied Anne. “ Letters are so strong and sharp, 
when one cannot see the face that speaks.” 

“ Well, we shall have it all out soon, I suppose,” said 
her father; “ I am not sorry this party has been made 
up for to-morrow; it will take off the stiffness. He 
must exert himself, as we shall not be only ourselves ; 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


209 


and it will take off the pain of meeting when there is a 
conflict of wills. He speaks as "if he were determined to 
have this girl.’’ 

‘‘Does he? I am glad,” said Anne. “It will prove 
him to be stronger of purpose than I had thought ; and, 
also, I feel as if it would be very unfair on our part to 
throw her over.” 

“He never ought to have had anything to throw 
over,” said her father, irritably, recurring to the spilt 
milk as the easiest bone of contention to pick. “It’s 
altogether a foolish, ruinous business, and I am surprised 
at your seeming to countenance it, Anne. What on 
earth are they to live on ? ” 

“Dear father, money is not everything 

said Anne, gently. “Suppose Leo convinces you that 
his love is unchangeable, and that it will be the making 
of him in his profession? ” 

“Ay, ay; easy talking! Unchangeable? Til ven- 
ture to say our little Car could soon bring him to a 
changed mind — just wind him round her finger, in fact. 
It is really too provoking to see her beauty and grace 
and all her belongings passed over and missed in this 
way, to make a mess of a marriage with a girl who could 
only come among us like some black swan or duck-billed 
platypus from the antipodes I ” 

Anne saw that much dust had been again thrown in 
her father’s eyes, and that he had quite forgotten what 
she had expressed on this subject before. She gently, 
but firmly, said, “I could never be glad that Leo should 


210 


IN THE CAMARQVE. 


marry Car, father dear. I think you do not quite see 
her character.” 

“ Quite see her character ! Absurd ! My own 
niece ? Why, the child has grown up with us all ! 
Anne, you are not like yourself about all this. You 
are quite hard upon your poor cousin. Surely, surely, 
my own love, you could not feel jealous about her, eh? 
Her beauty, and all that, eh ? ” 

^^My dearest father! No, I am thankful to say I 
never had any feelings about Car’s beauty, except to be 
glad of it,” replied Anne, smiling. ‘‘ But I do feel — 
still — that she somehow gets round you — gets between 
me and you. She is not straightforward; that’s the 
truth.’' 

^‘Eh? Well, she does not quite go in the fearless, 
downright path you do, my love, — straight as a line 
from north to south, with a mind as clear and transpar- 
ent as glass. You and your mother never had a single 
thing to hide, or a difficulty about the truth and open 
daylight. Biit, there ! women like that are not to be 
met with every day, I can tell you. And then, there 
are other advantages which must be secured as long as 
we live in this world, my dear. I dare say I seem to 
you worldly and outside, and without a high standard, 
and so on ; but, after all, we must walk on the dry ground 
and not float about in the clouds. I don’t see much 
amiss with poor little Car : I am sure she is most willing 
to run here and there, and to do any sort of kindness to 
everybody. She is always as busy as a bee, and use- 
fully occupied ; and then she has all those pretty, soft. 


XAT THE CAMARGUE. 


211 


womanly ways that are so nice in a man’s house. She 
would make his home very pretty and pleasant, and draw 
friends about him, and know how to urge him on, and 
keep him to his work, and to manage all that in London. 
Society would be Chinese hieroglyphics to this little 
French farmer’s daughter.” 

“ I suppose a ‘ farmer ’ in Provence is very unlike our 
own farmer class,” said Anne. ‘‘And then you see — 
you must not think me obstinate, father dear, but, you 
see, Leo has engaged himself to this little girl. We 
must behave as rightly to farmers’ daughters as duch- 
esses, must we not? ” 

“ You are right, there, dearie ; you have hit the very 
blot in the principle of rectitude. Well, well ! To- 
morrow will bring forth many things. Leo must tell his 
whole story, and of course he shall have fair play ; • so 
now, are all the ‘ vivers ’ ready ? Is everything pre- 
pared so as to run smooth to-morrow ? You know I 
can’t abide failures, and hitches, and shortcomings. I 
would much rather stay at home altogether.” 

Well did Anne know this. Well had she been 
grounded in the experience that men generally do detest 
any bar to their own perfect enjoyment, though they 
may not have lifted a single finger towards the work of 
organization, and toil of preparation, that was needed. 
She smiled gayly back at her father ; for with Anne, as 
with all true women, her sunny lovingness swallowed up 
and drowned all bitterness of the knowledge of evil. 
She only assured him that everything would be securely 
packed, and that she should see all the items laid out 


212 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


herself in the kitchen before they were consigned to the 
hampers. Then she kissed his forehead, and left him to 
the untroubled, delightful toil of filling in his figure of 
Elaine. 

The boats glided swiftly down the river, and the river 
was in its ripest fulness of beauty. ‘‘Needs not be 
said ’’ that “ the river ’’ was the royal Thames, up whose 
stream the boats were making their way to the velvet 
lawns, where they had leave to land and dine. The 
August cloudless blue, the vivid greens, the distant pur- 
ples, all touched with impalpable haze of heat, and won- 
derful, electric color and light ; the blaze of gardens in 
V their fulness of prime, the piles of geraniums, calceola- 
rias, and verbenas, actually emitting flashes of light; 
the fragrance of mignonette, heliotrope, and jasmine, in 
which the world seemed to be steeped ; the late water- 
lilies, and golden flags, and spiky loose-strife ; the clear, 
dark swirl of the queen of rivers, as its waters ran lei- 
surely, and with a kind of sweeping, high-bred calm, 
below the woods and parks that bordered it with ever- 
fresh beauty, — these things were all there in their per- 
fection of enjoyment, such as only the frequenters of the 
Thames can truly know. And those only can also ap- 
preciate the swift gliding of the well-manned four-oars, 
the calm, tranquil, yet sufficient speed, exciting the most 
pleasurable sense of mingled repose and movement, 
which is so unlike the fierce, throbbing, feverish pulse 
of the racing eight-oar, with its bound and pant like a 
battle-cry. The boats were filled with a pleasant party. 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


213 


but Nasmyth and Leopold were not among them. The 
others had all waited half an hour for them, and then 
Anne had written a most urgent note, to be given on 
their arrival, telling them to follow them, and giving the 
time and plan of encampment and dinner. The tiny 
steamboat which had been chartered of a friendly club, 
some of whose members were present, to bring up the 
servants, provisions, and dining accessories, had been 
ordered to lie back for them. 

The aristocratic boats had nearly reached their goal, 
when the small puflSng creature, like some miniature 
monster of prey, was seen turning the corner of the 
reach, and lively opinions and bets were merrily bandied 
to and fro as to whether the travellers were on board. 
The landing of the four-oars was effected in the midst of 
this excitement, which reached its climax when the tiny 
steamer puffed round to back alongshore, and two tall 
figures were seen lifting their hats to the gay group, now 
gathered on the river-bank. 

There they are! there are Leo and Harry! they 
are come!’’ which multitudinous exclamations blos- 
somed out, no one knows how, into three hearty, merry 
cheers, startling the fishes and the fishermen and fisher- 
women far down in the river bend, who were sitting 
sleepily in a vast punt under the magnificent overhang- 
ing woods. 

They have landed ; they are actually here. The tall, 
fair-bearded, sleepy-eyed Leopold is instantly wreathed 
and garlanded with pretty sisters ; the broader, bluffer, 
darker Harry is grasped by Mr. Morland’s outstretched 


214 


IN THE CAMAROUE. 


hand. The greetings of the men were of course made in 
stereotyped reticent English fashion. 

“ Well, Leo, welcome home ! how are you, my boy? ’’ 
said his father. 

“ Thank you, father, I am glad to be at home again. 
How well you look ! ’’ 

^‘Here is some one you have not spoken to yet, Leo. 
Take care, Lettice. You don’t give your brother a 
chance.’’ 

Leopold had not spoken to Car, it is true. How could 
he have done so with a kind of a “woodbine, eglantine, 
and vine” of sisters trailing all round and about him? 
But he had seen her all the time, and also perceived that 
she had looked at nothing but him. He shook hands 
with her now, and Car, after one vivid, shy look up at 
him, blushed, or seemed to blush, and her thick-fringed 
eyelids fell. She withdrew her hand quickly, and after 
a little while took herself away also. She had shot her 
arrow with steadfast audacity into the oak, hoping to find 
it by-and-by sticking, with its barbed point, “in the 
heart of a friend.” 

Nasmyth, meanwhile, had seized upon Anne, and, 
walking with her a little apart, was telling her about 
Noel Privas, and of his earnest hopes that her father 
would entertain the idea of a Provengal daughter-in-law. 
He spoke so warmly in her favor, and urged her marriage 
with Leopold so strongly, that Anne looked at him won- 
deringly. She, with all her English rectitude and love 
of justice, was still unable to free herself from the circle 
within which English people so narrowly imprison them- 


TME CAM ARGUE. 


215 


selves ; and a foreign sister, of a strange, suspicious relig- 
ion, had seemed to her something of a calamity, though 
one which she thought they were now bound in honor to 
face. But here came Nasmyth, talking about Noel as if 
she were actually a prize to be eagerly grasped at, for 
Leo’s sake. 

Then you really think she would be a great acquisi- 
tion to us all?” she said, walking quietly on, in her 
pretty, houffonne blue-and-white muslin, and shady mus- 
lin hat crowned with green leaves and trailing hops. 

‘‘I do indeed think so,” said Nasmyth, his thoughts 
suddenly taking a great leap back to Les Stes. Maries, 
and the solemn, serious, strangely-real world of thought 
in which he had been living. “I think, if you knew 
Noel, Miss Morland, and took in, as you would, her 
truth, her singleness, her pure, deep, loving character, 
you would feel as I do, that such a woman as that is a 
real pearl, a jewel to be bought at any costly price. I 
think Leo would be most fortunate in winning such a 
wife.” 

I am very glad to hear all you have told me,” said 
Anne, looking at him with her earnest, truthful eyes, full 
of gratitude; ‘^and I thank you for telling me. You 
know how anxious I — we all, I mean — are about Leo ; 
but you do not know how terribly afraid I have been — 
perhaps with a cowardly fear — that this has been just 
one more scrape. Certainly, papa has felt it to be, and 
has been much cast down about it. I see he is very ner- 
vous to-day, and would like not to open the subject till 
he can have it all out with Leo alone. But I should like 


216 


IJSr THE CAMARGUE. 


you to-night just to speak to him and tell hm what you 
have been saying to me. Noel ! What a pretty, strange 
name for our sister ! I feel as if I loved her already.’’ 

You would, Miss Morland, you will ; she is so 
replied Nasmyth, hurriedly, and his low, deep voice was 
moved, for he felt as if he were betraying all his feelings 
to Anne without any preparation or knowing the least 
how they would be received. They were stopped by 
Caryl, who came racing after them to say that his father 
thought they had better have luncheon now, before they 
wandered about any more. Anne blushed, for luncheon 
and all its responsibilities had vanished as if they had no 
place in life, and she now hurried away to arrange with 
Janet and the inevitable Stone where the cloths were to 
be spread, and how everybody was to be seated. The 
large summer-house, it was found, would hold the greater 
number, and there were tables and benches to be had from 
the lodge, with cups and saucers, kettles, water, and all 
the other impedimenta which even picnic lovers must en- 
dure to be cumbered with. 

When they were all seated. Oar Chetwynd was found 
to be missing, and Caryl was just going to rush off in 
search of her, when Leopold laid a detaining hand on his 
shoulder, and said, I will go for her, Caryl, boy ; I saw 
which way she went, — towards the water-lilies. You stay 
and help with the tea, old man,” and he ran oflF in a slant- 
ing direction towards the river.* 

When he was on the river-bank, Leopold looked up 
and down the stream, and saw, some little way higher up, 
a skiflF, which had been moored to a willow stump when 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


217 


they landed, lying in a bed of lilies, and Car sitting in it, 
with her head buried in the red cushions at the stern. 
He called to her softly, and ran along the bank till he 
was opposite the skiff. Still Car did not move, and Leo 
then called rather louder, and threw a stone gently splash- 
ing into the bed of water-lilies. With a start. Car then 
sat up, so suddenly, that the skiff was in imminent danger 
of wabbling over. 

Oh, do take care ! ’’ cried Leopold, in a fright. I 
beg your pardon for startling you ; but they are all at 
dinner, and every one is asking where you are.” 

^‘Tiresome! How awkward and stupid!” murmured 
Car, putting up both hands to her beautiful rippling hair, 
from which her bird^s-nest of a hat had fallen. Leopold 
then saw that she had been crying, or — Heaven save the 
mark ! — seemed to have been crying many tears, of 
which her large, thick-fringed eyelids also seemed to be 
full. 

Dearest Car, what is the matter? You are not hap- 
py — not the least like yourself. What is it, dear Car ? 
Come, you used often to tell me your troubles.” So 
spoke Leopold, holding on to the willow stump over the 
water. 

Usedr^ said Car, covering her eyes with both little 
hands, and shaking her shoulders with the prettiest move- 
ment of a child’s fractiopsn^ss. ‘^What signifies used, 
when everything — ” 

Everything is what? ” said Leo, striving to get hold 
of the skiff with a boat-hook he picked up on the bank. 

Do come back to the shore and common sense, Car. 


218 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


Will you throw me out that line, to draw you in by ? 
They will all be here in a band directly, to see whether 
you have developed into that damp, unpleasant body.’’ 

Oh ! defend me ! ” said Car, roused out of her tear- 
concocting and high sentiment. ‘^Yes, I will come, 
though I am sure I might just as well overturn the boat 
and get drowned at once. Who would care ? What 
would it matter, if you would but just leave me alone and 
let it happen? ” 

^‘Let it happen ! Why, you must be a little astray 
in your head to say such outrageous things. Who would 
care ? Why — of course — how can you say such horrid 
things, Car? Look here, we can’t go on talking now; 
but will you slope away after dinner, and I’ll row you 
down under the beech woods ? Will you ? Come, say 
Yes, and do please throw me that line in the boat there 
behind you.” 

Car seemed to take for granted that Yes ” was a 
needless word to use on such a question, thinking, per- 
haps, that the sudden brightening of her face with the 
loveliest dawn of a smile might be so construed. She 
twisted herself round, however, and with one swift, deft 
movement, grasped and threw the rope, which Leopold 
caught, and, drawing the skiff swiftly in, landed his 
cousin, and made the boat fast to its former mooring. 
Probably it was by a pure ttccident that Car’s foot gave 
way as she left the skiff, so that Leopold’s arm was 
thrown instantly round her to lift her out on shore. 

Ah, Noel ! as you stood in your pure, single, high- 


IN THE CAMARQUE. 


219 


souled love, under the old, fretted church porch, at 
Aigues Mortes, did any shadow of this ‘‘false Isolte” 
fall on you with a death-like chill ? Did any icy reveal- 
ing freeze your heart as to what a man’s love can be ? 


220 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE WILES OF THE FALSE ISOLTE. 

It was very pleasant under the arching branches of 
the great oaks, while chickens, and cold lamb, and cool 
salads, and refreshing drinks, made the round of the 
tables, and vanished in a wholesale way. As this is not 
a fashionable story, nor has a single duke or duchess in 
it, no special knowledge of cookery has been got up, nor 
must any one expect to hear of curious wines. Nothing 
had been got from Gunter’s, and there was neither Clos 
Vougeot nor Cliquot champagne. They were all only 
simple-hearted, respectable people, — while I write this, 
I have a painful demur about Car, — and the picnic, so 
called, — for it was not a real one, — was like the parties 
which used to be made, out of the simplest elements, 
from old, long-established, deep-rooted country-houses. 
By which, I mean the real homes of old country gentry, 
not the big hotels in noblemen’s big parks, where the 
shutters are opened and the curtains unbolstered towards 
September for six weeks or a couple of months’ London 
dissipation. 

Mr. Morland’s friends and intimates were mostly 
artists or literary people of some kind, — writers, poets, 
painters, art-critics, and a few people who loved art in 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


221 


any shape, and lived among its workmen. Probably 
there is no society where the feast’’ and ‘‘flow,” so 
often quoted, are so richly to be enjoyed; because there 
is also a thorough free-masonry, and the escape from con- 
ventional distinctions and stifihess. Painters, as a rule, 
too, have not the irritability of brain and sensitive jealousy 
which music seems to engender, and there is about them 
more laissez aller and repose. After dinner, some one 
began to hum “ Celia’s Arbor,” which was exquisitely 
taken up by Leo’s tenor and Nasmyth’s deep baritone, 
so much finer than any bass. Then one or two others 
took up “Who will o’er the downs,” and a few other 
really good, flowing part-songs, in which Anne and Janet, 
who had good, well-trained voices, were called into 
requisition, and even Lettice and Caryl, with their sweet, 
childish sopranos, made, as it were, the pinnacle of the 
spire. The cows, always attracted by music, gathered 
round, and much mirth was excited, when, after a few 
good part-songs, the singers found a semicircle of red and 
white cows standing round, as in the front seats* Leo- 
pold pointed them out to Juan, whose low growl and 
fidgets had been hitherto under the perfect control of a 
thoroughbred dog-gentleman, and J u soon put the audi- 
ence to rout, coming back, shaking his queer tail, and 
twisting himself into a half-moon, with much exultation. 

When the little breeze of movement and laughter had 
subsided, some of the singers’ seats were found to be 
empty, and Anne, Car Chetwynd, Nasmyth, and Leopold 
were missing. The younger ones then broke up into 
groups for croquet, for which Mr. Leybourne, the painter, 


222 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


had offered a pretty brooch as a prize to the best lady 
player. A sweepstake was then laughingly set on foot 
for a little silver mallet for the “best man;’’ and 
these preliminaries being settled, the players marched up 
to the ground near the house in a gay stream, leaving 
the servants and helpers to their dinner and the undis- 
turbed repacking of the baskets. There were some good 
paintings in the house, which some of the elders wished 
to see, and the whole river-bank was therefore quite 
deserted by the party for some hours. Tea and coffee 
were to be served rather late, and there was to be a sup- 
per for all who would go, given by Mr. Leybourne, 
whose large, airy, old-fashioned rooms were somewhere 
near the Chelsea river-bank. 

It had happened, without any arrangement of their 
own, that Nasmyth had taken Anne down the stream to 
show her a great patch of flags and beautiful flowering 
river grasses, frequented by dragon flies, while Leopold 
and Car had loitered down, according to their agreement, 
to the skiff moored in the opposite direction. It seemed, 
as if with intuitive shame, Leopold avoided, just then, 
meeting any one’s eyes, and had, under this feeling, 
taken a rather circuitous route to the river. While Car 
was widely, eagerly awake, under her veiled glances and 
downcast eyelids, Leopold seemed to be acting under 
some powerful mesmeric influence, sleepily half-conscious, 
and as it were with only one side of his will active. Car 
was steering with the nicest hand upon the tiller-ropes, 
scanning the least obstacles to her path ; while Leopold 
was drifting along, not quite voluntarily leaving his hold 


IN’ THE CAM A ROUE, 


223 


of principle and self-control and purpose, but rather 
allowing the current to carry him away. Car’s foot did 
not slip or fail her now ; she deftly and lightly poised 
herself like a bird, while Leopold held the fairy boat in 
a firm grasp, and slipped into her place as if she were in 
truth the Lady of Shalott. Leopold got in behind the 
long, slender oars, and a few of his practised strokes took 
them far and fast into the stream and down towards the 
reach. He seemed to put all his will into those first 
strokes, as if to get away from Car, and every one of the 
party, and even from himself. But when they came 
under the shadow of those glorious woods, where the 
shade, and stillness, and beauty seemed all more lovely 
and mysterious in their inner reflection than their out- 
ward reality, Leopold dropped his vigor, and only dipping 
his slim oars noiselessly into the water, just kept the 
cockle-shell moving along the glassy surface. 

The picture he saw in it was a live Calderon. Car 
just held the white tiller-cords with one hand, while she 
trailed the other lightly in the water, now sprinkling a 
few drops in the air, now listlessly catching at a reed 
or floating lily-bud. Her white muslin gypsy hat, with 
a crown of dog-roses and their scarlet berrie^lit up, 
while it seemed to shade, her face, and her thick, white 
pique dress was also relieved by the bright mingled 
Eastern colors of her soft Algerine sash. The lights 
and shadows shimmered over the coils and loops of 
her abundant bronzed hair ; and, as she carelessly 
played with the water, her eyes seemed to take every 
expression by turns that was soft, languid, appealing, 


224 


IN THE CAMAEGUE. 


and pathetic. This was the figure, leaning on its red 
cushions, that was looking Leopold in the face. As he 
gazed at it, he seemed to be drinking* in, through his 
eyes, some witch-draught, which benumbed his memory, 
paralyzed his will, and made even his arms nerveless and 
weak. 

Car ! ’’ he said at last, letting the boat gently drift 
into a bed of reeds and lilies under the bank. 

What did you say? she almost whispered in reply. 
‘‘ I have said nothing at all yet. I am going to say 
now — what made you so unhappy before dinner? ’’ 

That is my concern,” Car rather haughtily answered. 

It is nothing to you at all.” 

Is it nothing about me ? I mean nothing that I have 
to do with? If it is. Car, let me alter it.” 

‘‘There is nothing to alter,” she answered quickly; 
then, almost in a whisper again, “ Nothing now.^^ 

“Why not noiv? Have I done anything that you 
wish to have undone ? If so — ” 

“If so?” repeated Car, sitting upright and fixing 
her wonderful eyes upon him. “If so — what ? ” 

“ I should undo it,” replied Leopold, as if in a 
dream. 

“Undo your — ? What nonsense we are both 
of us talking ! You are going away into fairyland 
to be married, and to leave us all behind; and, of 
course, you will be so happy that you will forget all 
about the old time. Why, you must have almost 
forgotten it already. So your Provengale is very 
beautiful, Leo? Do tell me about her, will you? 


m THE CAMARGUE 


225 


What is she like? Is that really her face in your 
Jeanne d’Arc ? ’’ 

Yes/’ replied Leopold, absently. ‘^Do you know 
that my father objects to my marriage, Car? ” 

“Does he? That is very unfortunate. But I dare 
sa;f as soon as you are married, your wife will bring 
him round, especially if she is so charming and lovely. 
Of course she will be at a disadvantage at first, not 
speaking English, and knowing nothing of our home 
ways. But I suppose — I suppose — oh ! I don’t know 
anything — any more ! ” and, to Leopold’s utter dismay, 
Car threw herself back upon the cushions, covering her 
face with her hands, sobbing as if her heart was broken 
with grief. 

He backed the skiff away from the reeds and shore, 
and rowed into the middle of the stream, and farther 
away from wood-paths and possible listeners, and by 
that time Oar had thought fit to recover her composure, 
and was only looking very pale and downcast, and 
exquisitely bewitching in her quiet, shamefaced misery* 
Leopold felt quite desperate as he looked at her ; and 
although love-confessions from a woman were not to 
his taste, yet this one was for him, and the lowering 
was therefore forgiven. It is a bad case when such 
forgiveness has to be accorded between a man and 
woman, for each will revenge upon the other, con- 
sciously or unconsciously, the sense of degradation. 
Car was not a woman, either, to bear humiliation well, 
even when self-inflicted. Somebody must be sharply 
punished for her pain, and it was now Leopold’s turn. 


226 


m THE CAMARGUE» 


Stop now.” she said, with imperious temper in her 
silvery tones, do not wish to be rowed any further. 
I cannot imagine why we came.” 

I will tell you why. That we might understand one 
another,” replied Leopold, struggling, but vainly, in the 
net. 

There is very little to understand,” retorted Car. 
“ Men are all alike, and they try to make fools of every 
one in turn. It is well to know it.” 

^‘Car, I think now you are not just. You never 
would answer me clearly before I went abroad, and I 
thought you did not care for me.” 

You thought! Pray, when did you think so? 
When we were riding in Epping Forest, did you think 
so ? When we rowed down to Hampton Court, did you 
think so ? When we were in the conservatory at Mr. 
Leybourne’s ball, did you think so ? It is unmanly — 
no, I mean it is most fitting and manlike — to shift the 
blame upon my shoulders. If you meant me to under- 
stand, what was clear enough to any but the wilfully 
blind, you should have spoken more clearly still; if 
you meant nothing, Leopold Morland, you were a base 
humbug. But it is all over now — ‘ Too late ! Too 
late I ^ nothing signifies now, and it is only idiotic to 
talk of it. Row me back to the others now, if you 
please.” 

‘‘It is not too late, and it is not idiotic to talk of it,” 
replied Leopold. “I can speak to my father to-night.” 

“Yes, in the same breath as you make the arrange- 
ments for your French wife I Thank you ! you have 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


227 


chosen your own lot now, and you must abide by it. 
I should think you were quite used to eating olives by 
this time. No, no ! that would be rather too ridiculous. 
But there is one thing I should like to do just once 
more — if you will row up the stream now, I shall also 
be obliged to you. , I should like to have just one more 
gallop with you before you go into fairy-land, and then 
I shall bid you God-speed. Let it be one day soon; 
the beginning of next week ? Thank you, that is good 
of you. There they all are, waving their croquet 
mallets at us — tea, I suppose. Thank you, I can get 
out perfectly well by myself.’’ 

Where have you been?” said Caryl, running down 
breathless to ^the river edge. We have looked every- 
where foi* you. Tea is ready, and there is such jolly 
colored ice, Car. I have made Stone keep a lot for 
you.” 

“ Thank you, old man; that is very good of you. In 
return for Westminster Abbey, I suppose? ” 

“Where have you been?” echoed Lettice, running 
down the lawn. “ Father wanted Leo ever so much, and 
we have been all about the greenhouses and fernhouses 
to look for you ; I should have thought you would have 
enough of the river going home.” 

“Never can have enough of the Thames, Lettice,” 
said Car, lightly; “I have been hearing ever such a 
pretty fairy tale, and very soon you will both see the 
genuine, original fairy, that was forgotten at all the 
christenings.” 

“Then I hope she won’t be as angry as some of 


228 


m THE CAMAROUE. 


them were.” exclaimed ,Caryl. Why, they were the 
most horrid, cantankerous old parties that ever were 
known, and generally did something very upside down 
to everybody ! ” 

‘‘This one will only begin by making things upside 
down,” said Car, maliciously enjoying herself. “After 
that, everything will become as straight as the school- 
room ruler, and then you will, both of you, instantly 
find yourselves ruled all over with strong black lines.” 

“What nonsense! I don’t believe a word of it,” 
said practical, open-eyed Lettice; “but do come and 
have some tea, at least.” 


m THE CAMAEGUE. 


229 


CHAPTER XXIL, 

HOW LEOPOLD CONDUCTED HIMSELF. 

Great was Mr. Morland^s astonishment and almost 
dismay, after winding himself up to the higher atmos- 
phere of Anne’s rectitude and Nasmyth’s plain, 
bluntly-expounded level of what were the right princi- 
ples upon which to act, to find Leopold, on the morrow, 
more vacillating and uncertain than he had ever yet 
known him, about his own wishes. When no longer 
under the immediate personal spell of the false Isolte, 
he was depressed, irritable, nerveless, and utterly 
wretched. Whenever Car was present he became 
madly excited, and rattled on with her as if he had not 
a thought or responsibility in the world. Anne could 
do nothing with him ; and when, after a long, rambling, 
partly excited and partly dejected conversation with 
her, she, in her honest integrity, could not refrain 
from letting him see her amazed contempt at his 
conduct, Leopold had burst into a fit of excited pas- 
sion, such as she had never yet known in him, and had 
flung himself away froni her, saying that he should 
leave the country at once, and never come home any 
more. 

Bewildered and miserable, Anne met with Nasmyth 


230 


m THE CAMAROUE, 


in the hall, and besought him to go after Leopold and 
bring him to reason, promising on her part never to 
speak to him on the subject again. 

Nasmyth hurried away to do her errand, but no 
trace of Leopold was to be found. His hat was gone, 
but as Nasmyth was at a total loss to know in what 
direction to seek him, there was little to be done. As 
he was returning from a fruitless quest up and down 
the neighboring streets and in the Square gardens, 
he met Anne at the hall door, who said : — 

“ I was just coming to look for you to say that Car 
is missing too ; and, as she has not gone out with any 
of the others, I imagine she and Leo are somewhere 
together.’’ 

“Is it possible there can be a woman in the world 
like that?” exclaimed Nasmyth, unable to control his 
indignant contempt. “Well, anyhow, it is better than 
for Leo to get into one of his wild moods alone, for 
then he scarcely knows what he is doing. After all, 
Anne, it might be worse.” 

“Might it?” said Anne, much grieved, and no 
longer able to keep the heavy tears from rolling down 
her cheeks. 

“Do come in and sit down,” said Nasmyth, gently 
leading her towards the drawing-room, which was cool, 
fresh with flowers, and happily empty. 

“ There now, sit down in this nice resting chair, and 
I will give you a footstool. Here’s a fan.” 

He then quietly quested about till he had also found 
an old Venice glass smelling-bottle full of Eau de Co- 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


231 


logne, which he brought to her and poured some of it on 
her handkerchief. All which little offices the big, strong 
man did as gently as a woman. 

Oh, thank you ; that is very nice. It has done me 
a great deal of good,’’ Anne said ; but you were going 
to say something just when I could not help being 
stupid. ’ ’ 

was saying, I think,” said Nasmyth, slowly fol- 
lowing back his train of thought, ^^that things might 
have been much worse than they are. I do not mean to 
say that they are not bad now, or that Leo is not doing 
very wrong. I could not say that, for it would not be 
honest or true. I am cruelly cut up about it myself, 
because when I found, in the Camargue, that he was so 
really fond of Noel Privas, I did encourage him all I 
could to stick to marrying her, and all that; though, if 
I had known of it beforehand, I should have gone down 
on my knees to him not to engage himself or entangle 
her till he had seen you and your father. But I really 
did hope then that she had strengthened him against that 
dreadful fickleness which has hitherto been the bane of his 
life. Still you see, if it is not so, and if he is as like 
a sand-rope as ever in his purposes, and his principles 
all go to smash in this way, at the least extra temptation 
of a woman’s face, it is better for him not to marry 
Noel, for the heart-break would be much worse and more 
w^!cked after marriage than now. So don’t you be too 
much cutup about it, for perhaps Car — Miss Chetwynd 
— will be the best able to hold him in hand. And, by 
Jove!” ended Nasmyth, after the longest speech he 


232 


I2T THE CAMARGUE. 


had ever been known to make in his life — by Jove ! 
I do hope he’ll catch a Tartar ! ” 

Anne could not help smiling at the honest, honorable 
indignation of this great sheep-dog man, so strong and 
so gentle, so ready to fight all shams and shames to the 
death, while tenderer than a mother to anything feeble or 
wronged. 

‘‘That’s right! Now you look like yourself,” he 
said. “ I can’t think what would become of us all if you 
were to turn Feeble-mind I And now, Anne, I want you 
to give me one word of answer about — for my own con- 
cerns — or, if you don’t like to speak, just put out your 
hand instead. Will you — do you think you can ever 
— be my wife ? ” 

Another time Anne might perhaps have felt that she 
should have preferred a less • bald and commonplace 
mode of wooing. She might even have liked to linger 
over the between-time and the delight of becoming more 
and more certain of his real affection, without being 
forced to come to a spoken decision. But at this moment 
it was so refreshing to rest on, and feel the prop of this 
strong, firm, reliable support, and to know that all the help 
he could give was lawfully her own, that she simply did 
what he asked. Or, rather, she did both things. She 
frankly held out her hand to Nasmyth, and said, in her 
mixed surprise and gladness, “Yes; sometime or other. 
But, oh, I am not half good enough ! ” 

“ That’s my affair,’- said Nasmyth, laughing a little, 
and clasping the hand strongly in both his own. “ And 
‘ some time or other ’ won’t suit me at all.” 


ZiV TME CAMARGUE. 


233 


Speak to my father, Harry,’’ Anne whispered in his 
ear, as she was resting her strong head upon the stronger 
shoulder, henceforward to be her support. I do not know 
how I can ever leave him ! ” 

I dare say ! With Janet to take your place directly, 
and Lettice coming on ! But don’t you be afraid, dear- 
est,” he added, tenderly; ^‘it shall all be done in the 
right way; and, do you know, I think — though it is 
hard to go just at this moment — that I ought to tell 
him now at once.” 

Anne glanced at the clock on the chimney piece, and 
starting up, said, ‘‘Is it so late? Yes, Harry, go now, 
and ask him to let me come as soon as you have done 
talking to him.” 

Leopold had flung away from Anne in a frenzy of 
passion, excited by a variety of causes, in which the 
consciousness of his own baseness and his self-contempt 
had wrought the most strongly. He struggled, but 
feebly, to free himself from the net Car had cast around 
him, and from the spell of her bewildering and paralyz- 
ing enchantment. He strove to reassure himself that it 
was Noel whom he really loved, Noel whom he desired 
to be his wife. He even, at times, shuddered at the 
thought of Car’s reckless want of principle and consum- 
mate craft, and felt convinced that such a w’oman could 
never make him happy, or inspire him with trust. If 
she could so act, knowing him to be an engaged man, so 
put herself forward to blind him with the lust of the 
eye, so heartlessly lure him with bold attraction from the 


234 


IN TRE CAMARGUE. 


woman he had promised to marry — how could he feel 
confidence in her ever after as a wife? Would he ever 
feel sure that he knew whom she had seen, with whom 
she had been holding intercourse, where she had gone, or 
what she was doing ? Sweet, flattering, wily falsehoods 
flowed from her exquisite lips like trickling streams of 
water ; and at the very moment she was lying to him 
her glorious eyes were fixed upon him with the wide-open, 
fearless, cloudlessly innocent expression of a child. She 
toyed and dallied with every principle, casting it from 
her as she had cast away the reed tops and lily buds 
yesterday out of the boat; as if truth and uprightness, 
and justice and honor, were but weeds of the field or 
flood, to be now and then caught up or snatched at, and 
then flung regardlessly aside. How could any man, not 
besotted in his folly, wish to make such a woman his 
wife? 

And Leopold was not quite a fool. He was that 
worse thing, — a man infirm of purpose and principle. 
He had rushed from Anne^s presence into a little back 
morning-room, where there was a small fernery, first 
put up to blind some overlooking windows, and after- 
wards become a much petted and cared-for possession of 
Janet’s, under whose special charge it was. And in 
that fernery he saw Car standing, watering the delicate 
new fronds of an Osmunda with Caryl’s watering-pot. 
She started on seeing Leopold’s face, and hastily setting 
down the watering-pot she flew to him. What is it? 
What has happened ? Oh, please don’t look so dreadful, 
Leo ! 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


235 


‘‘I may well look ‘dreadful.’ Much obliged for the 
adjective ! I am just going down to St. Catherine’s 
Docks to find a ship bound for New Zealand or Aus- 
tralia. I shall bid good-by to England now for ever- 
more.” 

“0 Leo! Leo! don’t say such horrid things. Ah! 
I know what it is. Your father and Anne have been 
torturing you. Anne is so cold : she has no heart 
whatever.” 

“That’s not true, Car; I wish I were half — no, 
half a quarter - — as good as Anne. But I am not good, 
and I can’t go on living here in this misery — torn to 
pieces. Good-by!” 

Car saw that it was no moment for asking explana- 
tions, or for the least touch of teasing. She did not once 
even mention his marriage, but said, as if it had just oc- 
curred toiler, “Leo, I’ll tell you what would be the 
best plan. Let us go out and take a quiet ride ; if you 
will just go to Hammersley’s, and order two nice horses. 
I should like Sultan for me, please, with the side-saddle 
I always have, and let us go to Roehampton, or Mort- 
lake, out of everybody’s way. I will just leave a line 
to uncle, to say we are gone. Will you? And order 
the horses for me, please.” 

“ My own sweet little Car, that’s a capital idea ! Go 
and put on your habit, and I’ll come back and wait for 
you here. To get away from everybody is just what will 
save me at this moment from going mad ! ” 

Leopold caught up his hat and rushed off ; and Car 
gently, but swiftly, ran upstairs, smiling to herself as 


236 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


she went. After all, how strangely things weave into 
the pattern one has always intended to be the pattern of 
one’s life,” she was thinking, as she undressed and 
dressed in her cool chamber with the deftest quickness, 
everything turning the right way, and just as she wanted 
it, in her skilful little hands. Other people may come 
clumsily or fiercely across one’s woof, and break all one’s 
threads, and tangle them fearfully for a while. But if 
the weaver be patient and of good heart, and have a firm 
purpose, all that tangle can be smoothed out again, and 
the threads fastened, and the web finished triumphantly, 
after all ! ” 


nr THE CAMARGUE. 


237 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

THE RIDE TO ROEHAMPTOH. 

Nothing was said of the least importance on either 
side, while Car and Leopold took their way towards 
Roehampton. She seemed to make it her point to divert 
him altogether from serious thoughts, and only kept up 
a moderate and very pleasant sprinkle of the lightest 
talk, — what and whom they had seen during the winter ; 
what pictures had been “cast’’ ‘at the Academy, and 
why ; all kinds of anecdotes of their own circle of artists 
and their friends ; everything told with the slight flavor, 
coloring, and zest which was peculiar to the syren-char- 
acter of the” girl, poised with the most perfect ease, but 
as square and firm in the saddle as any practised woman- 
rider to hounds in Leicestershire, her little gauntleted 
hand showing its perfect power and practice over the 
mouth of the half-bred blue Arab she rode. 

Car alternately put her horse to a brisk gallop, a slow 
trot, or lounged along the lanes at Leopold’s side, and 
in each mood and pace looked prettier and more agacante 
than in the one before. They got over Rarnes Common 
at a good pace, and, turning up the long lane which 
skirts the Sacred Heart Convent and Roehampton Park, 
came out on the pretty ground lying between Roehamp- 


238 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


ton and Richmond. Before they left the village, Leo- 
pold bought, of a clean old woman, a loaf and some 
ginger beer, — the only eatables which they could find 
that were possible to swallow, — and they cantered on to a 
lovely solitary dip in the turfy grass, sheltered by gorse, 
ferns, and a thick brushwood of trees. Here they dis- 
mounted, Leopold fastened their horses to a couple of 
stout tree branches, and they sat down on the grass to 
eat the moderate cates they had been able to secure. 
The ride and the repose of it had done Leopold so much 
good, that he easily demolished three-quarters of the 
loaf; and Car’s feelings never hindered her from picking 
up a very good meal on any kind of wholesome food, for, 
like all women of her special characteristics, her organ- 
ization and health were faultlessly sound. 

When she had finished the last morsel of bread, and 
rolled up the paper into a ball to throw at Leopold, she 
suddenly bent her lovely eyes upon him with a new, 
grave, and serious expression, and said, Now, Leo, you 
must decide what you are going to do.” 

‘‘ Eh ? About what, all of a sudden ? ” 

“ About your marriage.” 

‘‘I thought we were to let that alone, just for to- 
day,” he replied, cloudily. 

Just for the ride. We have let it alone, and have 
had the ride, and a very jolly one it has been. But that 
is over now, and I wish to know one or two things.” 

“ What, to begin with? ” said Leopold, who had gal- 
loped himself into a reckless, dare-devil mood, and was 
in no humor to come out of it just yet. 


IJSr THE CAMARQUE. 


239 


First, I wish to know if this is the last — the very 
last jolly ride I shall ever have with you ? ’’ 

The devil ! No ! ’’ exclaimed Ijeopold, so fiercely as 
to make him disregard all his usual observance towards 
women. 

Car’s face did not express the least shock or concern. 
She was sitting nearly upright, with her back against 
the smooth bole of a beech-tree, and her eyes, liquid 
with light, were fixed upon the far-off sunny hills. Her 
habit fell gracefully around her in a flood ; but much 
as there was of it, one little booted, arched foot lay just 
outside the cloth torrent. Through the foliage the flecks 
of golden light danced upon her thick coils and plaits of 
bronzed hair, a little rougher and more rippled than usual 
from the ride. Her feathered hat — Car never would 
wear a chimney-pot — lay on the ground, with her gloves 
and whip. After Leopold’s answer came a pause. Car 
still looked at the sunny hills, and a storm-thrush in a 
thicket sang out his wild, pathetic song. 

‘‘If you are going to New Zealand or Australia, it 
probably will be our last ride together,” she said at 
length, with another manner, a little careless and 
mocking. “ I think you must give that notion up, Leo. 
You are likely to be famous now with your pictures, and 
your new ‘gray lights.’ There is nothing to hinder 
you, I think, from being at the very top of the tree, if 
you will make up your mind now on one or two 
points.” 

“As, for instance? ” 

“ To stay in England.” 


240 


m TBB CAMARQUE. 


Number one. Item ? ’’ 

‘^To stick to your work, and to make a firm, fast 
friend of your father.” 

“Number two. The third item is always the one.” 

“The third is certainly the difiiculty in your case,” 
replied Car, and her silvery tones dropped more slowly, 
but vyth perfect clearness on the ear. “ You must give 
up your marriage with Noel Privas.” 

There was a dead silence. The sun-flecks danced upon 
Car’s head, now a little bowed, but the storm-thrush had 
ceased his song. 

Leopold sat up from the grass on which he had 
stretched himself at full length, and fixed his eyes full 
upon Car. Something in her drooped head, her drooped 
hands, her large, thick-fringed eyelids, again bound him 
fast in her spells. He bent forward, took one of her 
hands, and almost in a whisper said, “ Car ! ” 

“Leo!” 

“Look up at me, Car! ” 

But she did not look up. On the contrary her head 
bent a little lower than before. 

“ Car, you must look at me ! Do you love me? Will 
you be my wife? ” 

“ I will, as soon as you are free.” 

“ Then I will be free this night ! ” 

Car lifted up her head, and, as her exquisite eyes were 
fixed full upon his, Leopold took her in his arms, and 
kissed her, and said she should make of him and of his 
life henceforth whatever she would. 

And Car, in her wild, trembling transport of trium- 


IK THE CAM ARGUE, 


241 


phant joy, forgot to think what manner of love a man’s 
love is. 

They rode back to the late dinner in Montagu Square ; 
and when Car had been taken off her horse, she went 
straight into the study adjoining the painting-room, 
where her uncle generally smoked a cigarette after his 
walk. 

‘‘So, Miss Eunaway, you have got back, have you? 
What have you done with Leo? ” 

Car made a loop of her riding-whip, and put it round 
her uncle’s neck, and then, laying her cheek gently on 
his hair, said, have taken him for my own, uncle, for 
good and all ! I am going to look after him now. He 
has given up his Provencal love, and is going to write to 
her to-night.” 

“Well, upon my word, you have both of you behaved 
so badly, that I don’t know how you ought not to.be 
punished ! As far a:s you are concerned, my darling, I 
am only joking, as you know very well there is no one 
in the world I have wished Leo to marry so much as 
yourself, Car, and it has been a sore trial to me to see 
my wishes thwarted. But all’s well that ends well, and 
I do hope that poor little French girl won’t break her 
heart about him.” 

“Leo thinks she will be a nun,” replied Car, modu- 
lating her voice to its most pathetic tone. “And she 
seems to be — oh, so good ! ” 

“And what are you, you little deluding baggage? I 
believe you’ve always had a soft spot in your little heart 


242 


THE CAMARGUE. 


for Leo, eh ? Come, let us have a full and true confes- 
sion, miss!’’ 

‘‘I dare say, without a father confessor!” saucily 
replied Oar. ‘‘ But now, you dear uncle, seriously, will 
you be very, very kind to dear Leo, and pet liim a great 
deal ? Indeed, he wants a good many sugar-plums, for 
I think — I am afraid that Anne was not very kind to 
him this morning, and he felt it very much.” 

‘‘Pooh! pooh! Anne not kind! wljy, she never was 
unkind to a living thing ! ” exclaimed Mr. Morland, hastily. 
“ Don’t you go and fancy things like that, Car, to make 
dissension and ill-blood. I’ll speak to Leo after dinner, 
and to Anne too. I say, look at the clock, pussy-cat, 
and run and get off your things. Five minutes to make 
yourself ship-shape for dinner, and Leybourne dines here 
to-night I But, here ! I must have one good kiss, first, 
all the same.” 


IIT THE CAMARGUE. 


243 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

‘^HE COMETH NOT, SHE SAID.” 

The great August heat, which amounts to what may 
be called white heat on the southern shores of Lower 
Languedoc and Provence, was now pouring its full 
fierceness upon Aigues Mortes. The yellowing stone 
of the fortified walls and towers glowed in the sun 
with a more lurid glare ; the silent streets were more 
stifling and desolate than ever, for not a creature dared 
venture out of doors in the daylight, except the wan- 
dering beggars, the gypsies of the Camargue, who were 
to be found plying their various small trades for the 
convenience of the town. They were to be found, also, 
curled up asleep in many a nook and deep doorway, 
looking, with their brown limbs, fine muscles, and 
richly-colored rags, like mediaeval bronzes or painted 
casts. Here and there, in some of the by-nooks and 
little weed-grown squares, some old broken fountain 
would give forth its refreshing sound of plash and 
trickle, which was nearly the only sound to be heard, 
till, late in the evening, a few old women or more ener- 
getic children would creep out with jars and pitchers, 
which there would be amongst the urchins a game of 
romps, loud laughter, and throwing the water in one 


244 


IN THE CAMARGUE, 


another's faces. And before the old curfew-bell * chimed 
out its reluctant drowsy notes, some of the inhabitants 
would wake up and bring out chairs, in which they 
would sit and chat, also somewhat drowsily, for an hour 
or so, till they obeyed the immemorial bell, and turned 
in to sleep again. 

Even in the great, lofty, bare convent, with its stone 
or tiled floors and whitewashed walls, the heat told 
heavily on the nuns in their various occupations, and 
heavy, flowing, woollen habits and veils. No one ever 
complained, either of the habits or of the heat, but the 
white faces grew more faded and wan, and the feeble 
chanting voices more feeble, as July rolled on into 
August, and the fierce sun seemed to burn up all the air 
and stop the very pulses of the heart. 

The sisters in the kitchen, however, went on making 
soup as usual for the sick who sent for it, as well as for 
a certain number of cripples and maimed, who could do 
nothing to earn their own bread. And the sister in the 
bakehouse, also, plied her hot trade just the same, 
though Noel often thought she would faint away as 
she was helping her take out the batch of loaves. For, 
as Noel told the simple nun, she did not eat enough to 
keep a sparrow alive; and, besides all the usual four 
abstinence days every week, there were the lengthened 
Advent and Lent from Septuagesima Sunday, and extra 
fasts, which seemed to her to recur without end. 

But Sister Placida only smiled her usual contented 

* The curfew hour, if not the bell, is most religiously observed at 
Aigues Mortes. 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


245 


smile, and told Noel that, if they suffered cheerfully in 
this world, she hoped they should be well refreshed in 
the next, for which they w^ere all living. 

This particular afternoon, during the octave of the 
Assumption, there was no cooking or baking going on ; 
which was well, for it seemed to Noel the hottest day 
they had yet had. Perhaps it weighed all the more 
unendurably upon her, because she had been pining for 
many weeks for a letter from Leopold, and no letter had 
come. And Noel, without knowing it, had gone through 
the whole series of the heart-breaking stanzas of Mariana, 
and was hourly unconsciously echoing, — 

“ He cometh not, she said — 

I would that I were dead ! ” 

She was sitting now in a little parlor, near the 
church, finishing drawing out a distaff of fine wool for 
the abbess, while she listened to the rising and falling 
chant of the office, as the nuns were singing vespers in 
choir, — ‘‘ Lauda Jerusalem Dominum : lauda Deum 
tuum, Sion,’’ they sang. Qui annuntiat verbum Suum 
Jacob: justitias et judicia Sua Israel.” And Noel, 
almost as in a dream, followed the course of the psalm. 
Then, after a pause, a lovely, young, clear voice began 
to intone the Little Chapter, — that wonderful cry 
which always seems to be heard for the first time, 
uttering deep and unspeakable things, — 0 altitude 

divitiarum sapientise et scientise, Dei, quam incom- 
prehensibilia sunt judicia Ejus, et investigabiles vise 


246 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


The well-known, familiar words seemed to flash like 
an electric light upon Noel’s inner sense, and to stir 
up and arouse, as with a trumpet call, all her hidden 
powers of courage and endurance. She sat attent with 
the distaff in her hand, almost as if waiting to hear 
to what tasks she should be summoned. Then the 
heavy gate bell rang, and she saw the portress open the 
wicket and take in two letters. Throughout the long 
after years of her life Noel never lost sight of that 
moment ; the heavy, deep swing of the bell, the opening 
of the wicket, the look of the letters handed in, and 
the cheerful ‘^Bon soir, monsieur!’’ of the portress. 
Disturbed by the bell, three white doves, who were 
■picking up grain in the court, whirred suddenly up into 
the air, and settled on the steep crested roof, where they 
roo-cooed themselves again into a placid state of repose. 
And just then the Angelus rang, and the portress, 
coming across the court, stopped to say it, and Noel, 
with her heart beating audibly, said it too. 

Voici une grande lettre pour vous, chere petite I ” 
said the portress, after a while. Mais qu’elle est 
grande et grosse ! Doit y avoir quelque chose dedans I ” 

Half an hour later a low, hurried knocking was 
heard by Mere Bauget at her door, and without 
waiting for the ‘^Deo gratias ! ” it opened, and a pale, 
half-scared looking figure tottered across the floor, and 
laid itself at the abbess’ feet, hiding her head in her 
lap, and moaning low, like some wounded animal in 
distress. Much startled and amazed, the abbess soothed 


Ijsr THE CAMABGUE, 


247 


her gently, sought the well-worn cushion of her prayer- 
desk (forced on her by the infirmarian) to lay under 
Noel’s head, and ringing her little handbell, despatched 
the prompt lay sister, that answered the rare call to 
the infirmary, for some wine and eau des Carmes. 
Having obliged Noel to swallow some mouthfuls of 
this mixture, the abbess went on bathing her head for 
some time with the diluted eau des Carmes, till a 
violent hysterical fit revived the girl from her stunned, 
bewildered state. Then the abbess sent away the lay 
sister, but told her to remain within call. She had 
seen that Noel had, throughout, clutched a crumpled- 
up letter with a firm hold, refusing all efibrts to open 
the hand which held it ; and as soon as the door was 
shut, and Noel was again leaning against her. Mere 
Bauget said : — 

Now, dear little one, tell me all the trouble. You 
have heard from England, have you not? ’’ 

Oh, yes ! — at least, I thought so ; but I am so be- 
wildered that I can’t tell. It is his writing ^ — it has his 
name — but, oh ! can it be he that — ” 

‘•Do not sob so, my dear little child. Had I not 
better see the letter ? I feared this. He is not true to 
you, my child. Is it not so ? ” 

Noel still seemed so stunned that she scarcely yet 
took in the full meaning of her own grief, or of its 
cause, or of anything that was said to her. She slowly 
lifted up her head, and fixed her swollen eyes on the 
abbess, then as slowly uncrumpled her tightly-clenched 
hand, and dropped the letter on her lap, laying her 


248 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


head down again ^ on her knees, as if she gave up 
understanding anything, and only knew that with this 
mother there was refuge and safety. Mere Bauget 
smoothed out the letter, which was of two sheets 
closely written ; but, as the hand was a good and clear 
one, she got through it without much diflSculty. After 
a great deal of rambling and contradictory introduction 
— about his father and his reluctance to the marriage, 
and his money difficulties, and the family grief at the 
idea of his banishment from England and his family, 
and his intense disappointment that his father refused 
him and his future wife a home in the family house, and 
his own despair, said in many words, which seemed to 
multiply themselves purposely out of the writer’s 
cowardice — Leopold came to the pith of bis letter : — 

And so, my own best darling, — whom, after to-day I 
must no longer call my own, — there is but the one course 
for me and for you to take. We must part, my Noel, and 
I must bear never again to hear your dear voice, or look 
in your sweet face. I wish from my inmost heart you 
had never seen me at all, and that I could put every- 
thing back to the day when I first saw you sitting in the 
charette at the muselade. I can say nothing to you to 
justify myself, my dearest one, for I have nothing to 
say ; you must despise me, as I deserve, but I am not 
man enough to forsake my country, and all my own 
people, and my hopes in my profession, and go to live 
in a strange land. I cannot do it, and if I tried it I 
should only make you and myself miserable. Pray for 


m Tn:E camargue. 


249 


me sometimes — but no — forget me as soon as you can, 
and forget all this wretched piece of your wasted life, 
and forgive me, I implore of you, for all the harm I 
have done you. Oh, I do hope and pray you may 
forget me altogether, as if you had never seen me! Do 
not send back the ring, but break it up and sell it for 
the poor, or give it to the altar at Les Stes. Maries. 
God bless you forever, my darling Noel ! 

Your half-distracted and utterly miserable 

Leopold Morland.’’ 

‘^Miserable, indeed, he may well say!’’ said the 
abbess, laying down the letter. That word in it, at 
least, is true. So much hope is there in a man who has 
no settled principles or religion ! My darling little 
one ! ” continued this true mother, stroking Noel’s 
bowed-down head with the softest, gentlest touch. My 
darling little one ! I do not think this is the worst 
misery that could have befallen you. He could not 
have made you really happy. You could never have 
rested on such a foundation of sand. And God has 
mercifully shown you this truth before it was too 
late. Look at me, my darling child, and try to sound 
your own heart, and the truth. Was it not passion, 
rather than the true love which makes a blessed 
Christian marriage, that bound you to him ? Did it 
ever give you rest or peace? ” 

Noel shook her head sadly. No,” she said faintly, 
but I loved him ! He was so good to me — so kind — 
so beautiful ! Perhaps it was all wrong — but I loved 


250 


m THE CAMAEGUE. 


him. 0 my God ! what shall I do, never to see him 
again ! Let me die ! Oh, let me die ! 

. The abbess let her moan for a while, like a wounded 
fawn, soothing her with calm and tender words and 
caresses, and then her deep, rich voice said again, ‘‘Lis- 
ten to me, my child. Was it not put into your heart 
to come here, away from your home, for some tranquil 
rest and thought ? ’’ 

“Yes, mother. I thought of it one Sunday while 
we were at mass.’’ 

“The thought came quietly into your own mind, 
without any one suggesting it to you? ” 

“ No one had said anything about it, mother, for that 
purpose. My father had been furiously angry when — 
when — he wished — ” 

“Never mind about that, darling. Your father said, 
probably, that you should come and be shut up in the 
convent, as a threat of punishment, on bread and 
water ? ” 

“Yes, mother, that was it; I never thought much 
about it then, because I know he will threaten anything 
when he is put out like that. But, the next Sunday, 
the thought came to myself, and I felt that I wanted a 
rest for both mind and soul.” 

“Do you not think God himself gave you that 
thought? ” 

“ I suppose -so, mother,” said Noel, faintly. 

“ And there were many more things contained in it, 
my little one, than you can see yet. You thought of a 
few days of retreat and leisure, to prepare yourself for a 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


251 


change of lot, while God was taking you into the wilder- 
ness to speak more specially to your soul, and to make 
you ready to do more and more work for him. What 
this work is I do not yet clearly see myself, but I have 
the most unquestioning faith that he will lead you on 
and into it with his own hand, as he has begun the act. 
Come with me now for a little visit to the church, — a 
very little one, darling, for you are quite worn out. We 
will just bless God’s will together, and thank him that 
he has led you so near himself by the sorrowful road 
of the cross ; and then we will ask him together to give 
you light and strength to bear up under it and to go on ; 
and your first act of renewed courage and trust in 'God 
shall be to see me destroy this memorial of your past 
life.” 

Mere Bauget took up Leopold’s letter, and tearing it 
into the smallest fragments, she threw them into her 
waste-paper basket ; and then, putting one still powerful 
arm round Noel, she lifted her up and made her lean on 
her with her whole weight till they got into the church. 


252 


m THE CAMAROUE. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

HOW NOEL CONDUCTED HERSELF. 

A FEW weeks later Paquette and Noel were sitting 
once more at the convent gates within the courtyard in 
the little charette with Brunon, and Paquette was hold- 
ing up the thick white double umbrella to shade them 
from the sun, as Noel was saying last and still more last 
words to the nuns and lay sisters who had been allowed 
to go down to bid her farewell. Every one of them 
was heartily sorry to part with her, and the lay sisters 
especially had hoped that they should have seen Noel led 
into the chapel to make her request to the Mother Abbess 
as a postulant, and that she would have ended her days 
as a Benedictine at Aigues Mortes. For some tricklings 
of the truth had oozed out — as such truths will — about 
Noel’s marriage having been broken off, and what, said 
they to themselves, could a disappointed earthly bride 
do better than become the bride of Heaven”? And 
they all loved this sweet, gentle Noel so dearly ! How- 
ever, they still cherished a hope that Noel was only 
waiting for her grandmother’s death, and they therefore 
cheerfully bade her good-by and God-speed, and urged 
her to come back to them before long. And Noel looked 
up once again at the while doves on the high-crested 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


253 


roof, and at the fretted arch of the beloved church, and 
the black flowing habits of the nuns, and their placid 
faces ; and then the groaning old gates opened and closed, 
and they were in the streets, and Noel felt almost as if 
she were a nun herself, sent out into her dreary banish- 
ment in ‘^the world.’’ 

She looked very pale and thin, and there was a languor 
m her sweet face and large eyes that had never been seen 
there before ; but she talked cheerfully to her grand- 
mother, and asked questions about her father, and the 
animals, and all her home things. 

They drove out of the massive, almost Cyclopean 
thickness of the town walls, across the filled-up moat, 
and through the glorious old covered gateway of the Car- 
bonniere, and were soon scudding over the salt marshes as 
fast as Brunon could go. For, whereas at* times it was 
hard work to urge him to a very mild trot, the mule 
knew directly his head was turned homewards, when he 
would lay his heels well to the ground with the bit in his 
teeth. The airless, simmering heat w^as so intense, even 
at that early hour of half-past four in the morning, that 
Paquette was glad enough to see the mood Brunon was 
in. All about them the snow-white salt dew, as it was 
called, reflected back the sunlight painfully, and the mias- 
ma from the salt swamps and stagnant pools was foetid and 
unpleasant. But Paquette pulled out of her pocket two 
round lumps of charcoal, as big as a hazel-nut, and putting 
one in her own mouth, gave the other to Noel, bidding 
her keep it under her tongue and be careful not to lose it. 
They had driven on in this way till about seven o’clock, 


254 


m THE CAMAItGUE. 


when Paquette drew up at a little dwarf-oak thicket, re- 
marking that shade was scarce in these parts, and that 
they had better breakfast there and give Brunon a rest. 
She unfastened the mule from the cart to give him a 
better chance, and pulled bread and butter and eggs out 
of her basket, saying that they must pick up a good meal 
while they had a little shade over their heads. 

When they had breakfasted and harnessed Brunon 
again, and got out of the thicket and turned their 
faces towards the plain, they saw a strange and most 
unwelcome sight. A vast silvery lake, with bluish 
billowy waters, stretched before them, and between them 
and it the loveliest succession of wooded villas, churches, 
and orange-gardens, spreading down towards the lake. 
A variety of vessels and boats “with latteen sails were 
sailing on the lake, and every now and then changed the 
scene by lifting themselves up and sailing about as easily 
in the air. 

‘‘0 granny, the mirage!’’ cried Noel. “I have 
never seen such a beautiful one before ! Why, look, 
there is the church of Les Saintes I Surely, we cannot 
have missed our way? ” 

^^We shall miss it in good earnest if we go taking 
those devils’ churches* for real ones! ” replied Paquette. 

I am very sorry to see them so early in the day, but 
I believe Brunon would take us home in spite of all the 
sorcery in the Camargue; ” and Paquette made the sign 

* The mirage of the Camargue is looked upon by the inhabitants, 
whose belief in, and even practice of, a number of superstitious acts 
is singularly rooted, as the direct intervention of Satan. 


JiY THB CAMABGVE, 


255 


of the cross, and touched Brunon with the end of the 
reins. The mule seemed to feel that all his chivalry 
was put in requisition, and instead of backing and 
laying down his ears, as he was apt to do at starting, 
he made a full stop, pointed his ears forward till they 
met, and then, with a little neigh of sagacious discern- 
ment, started off at a long, round trot, straight towards 
the largest of the fanciful churches in question. As 
in the nature of the appearances in a mirage^ it toppled 
over and passed away like a dissolving view before their 
approach, and as Brunon continued to point his ears and 
investigate occasionally with his nose nearly on the 
ground, they successfully stormed and took all the more 
salient points of the sham landscape, and made their 
'way in safety in the ferry-boat across the great Canal de 
Beaucaire, a little beyond which they were to stay the 
night at a farmhouse. When they were going to bed, 
just after saying their prayers, Paquette kissed Noel 
very affectionately, which she seldom did, and said in a 
low, choked voice, ‘^May God forever bless thee, my 
child ! Neither thy father nor I shall ever say a word 
about it. But if other folks do not know thy worth, 
we are heartily glad to have thee at home again ! ’’ 
Before suddenly extinguishing the candle, and herself 
under the bedclothes, Paquette had thus spoken her first 
and last word to Noel about her broken engagement. 

The next evening they reached Cabridelle, and Noel 
took up once more her old common home life. But not 
as she had done before; for her grandmother now left 
most of the household matters entirely in her hands, 


IN THE CAMARGUE, 


and her hither continually made some excuse or errand 
for taking her out with him, and bought her a new little 
cart and a snow-white pony for her to drive herself out, 
saying that now he was getting old he liked her to take 
the reins and save him the trouble. He even trained a 
passion flower and Gloire di Dijon rose round her own 
chamber window, and laid down the whole space before 
the house in flowers and sweet herbs for the use of her 
bees, and contrived a pretty shed of canes over the 
spring, that she might be sheltered from the sun and 
driving winds when she went for water or to wash her 
cheese bowls. In short, Nicole Privas seemed to have 
grown as tender and watchful as a mother for Noel’s 
sake, and sought in every way he could invent to show 
his love and sympathy and joy at having her again at 
home. But, grateful and loving to him as she was, it 
was hard tvork for Noel. In the flrst place, like all 
people who have once ’passed through great emotions, she 
had become refined and elevated by them, and felt that 
she no longer stood even on the same level as formerly 
■with regard to her father and grandmother. She had 
always felt some unconscious separation, but it had 
widened tenfold since her acquaintance with Leopold 
Morland, and then, as the Arabs say, the flower which 
has once unfolded to the sun can never again fold itself 
up into a bud.” 

Noel scolded herself also often for the distaste, but 
she could not take up again her old interest in her 
w^ork. The care of the animals and fowls and silk- 
worms, and even the bees, which she had formerly so 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


257 


loved to watch, seemed now wearisome tasks which 
weighed upon her, instead of the interests of her 
daily life. And, worst of all, the haunts which had 
become strongly associated with Leopold were all now 
so alive with pain, that she could, at times, scarcely 
refrain from crying out aloud as she passed them by, 
or was obliged to frequent them in her daily work. 
The spring, where he had lain at full length on the 
grass to watch her washing her dairy utensils; the 
mulberry trees, where she had sung to him her quaint 
old ballads ; the orchard, where she had heard his first 
real actual words of love, and where he had put his 
mother’s ring on her finger, — all these — and the upper 
floor, where she had sat to him so many days as his 
model for Jeanne d’Arc, and where he or Nasmyth had 
reeounted the circumstances of the Maid’s beautiful 
life — now seemed whole armories of cruel weapons 
and instruments of torture, by which she was racked 
and pierced with daily anguish. Had it not been for 
Mere Bauget’s words, and her frequent, short, strength- 
ening letters, and Noel’s own conviction that the roots 
of passion must be slowly plucked up and cast into 
the fire, she could never have outlived the weary 
months that dragged themselves away as if they never 
would end. 

During that time a rich shopkeeper of Aigues Mortes, 
a good and clever man, who filled one of the chief munici- 
pal posts in his native town, came all the way across the 
Camargue to Cabridelle, to ask Noel to be his wife. For 
he had seen her several times at the parish church, and 


258 


IN THS CAMARGUE. 


had never before thought of any woman enough to wish 
to take a wife. 

Privas and his mother were touched by his respectful 
devotion and modest pleading, that he might be allowed 
some time, any time she liked to name, as his probation, 
if only he might be allowed to hope. But no pleading 
or urgency of his affection could induce Noel to listen to 
him for a moment herself. Her eyes flashed in the old, 
long-forgotten way, her lips quivered, and her whole 
slight frame trembled with excitement, as she said to her 
father, “Never again, father! Do not ask me; do not 
speak to me of loving any man I I am sorry for him and 
thank him, and respect him ; but I will never see him or 
any one on that errand as long as I live ! ’’ 

And as long as he stayed — for Privas was obliged to 
keep him for the night — Noel never left her room, even 
for meals, and not till she saw the charette lessening on 
the plain did she lose her feverish, restless irritability of 
look and voice and manner. 

It was the last time either her father or grandmother 
ever spoke to her of loving or marrying any man. 

During the next year her kind, strong-hearted old 
grandmother died, and not long after that, by one of 
those strange, capricious acts to which men are given when 
they have been subjected to any great sorrow, Privas sud- 
denly married again, marrying, too, a young woman who 
was only a few years older than his daughter ; and then 
Noel’s heart bounded for the first time since her loss, 
with a feeling of something like joy, for she was free. 


J2V THE CAMARGUE. 


259 


CHAPTER XXVL 

TWO MARRIAGES. 

There was a great stir and excitement in the not very 
stirring regions of Montagu Square, — much coming and 
going all the morning ; mysterious covered baskets and 
dishes appearing, conveyed by gentlemen in white aprons ; 
flowers, servants, and helpers ; chairs, tables and benches. 
A line of butchers’ boys, bakers, hand-carts, and the 
general more do-nothing driftwood, the current of which 
mysteriously sets in, no one knows whence, on the spring- 
ing up of any event, stood on tiptoe outside the area- 
railings, peeping at as much as could be seen of the inside 
dining-room splendor, and nudging and reporting of it to 
each other, with Oh, my ! ” and Did you ever ? ” and 

I say, look at the cakes ! Two on ’em at onst ! ” And 
undoubtedly the tops of two wedding-cakes, wreathed 
with flowers, and decorated with pretty figures, were 
there to be seen, as well as the upper summits of pyramidal 
Gunterian-seeming pies, vases, flower-pots, of 

fruit, and other such varieties. 

And there w’as really going to be a double marriage 
from this same house in the square ; and while the butchers 
and bakers and candlestick-makers were looking over the 


2G0 


JiV THE CAM ARGUE, 


railing, two several brides were being adorned in their 
several rooms. 

Anne Morland and Car Chetwynd, to wit. For, in 
spite of Anne’s great, and, if possible, Nasmyth’s greater, 
repugnance to Leopold’s conduct, and their mutual dislike 
of the wiles of his beautiful bride, they could not make, 
or keep up, dissension in the family home; nor could 
Anne, w^ithout doing violence to herself and her princi- 
ples as a daughter, stand out against her father’s strong 
wish that his son and daughter should be married from 
Eis house on the same day. Nay, moreover, as Leopold 
was his eldest son, his marriage was to be the first celebra- 
ted, while Anne’s would play only second fiddle. That is, 
Leopold, whose attention to his father had been little, 
whose obedience to his feeling and wishes of the least, 
and whose conduct had been poor, untrustworthy, and 
unfaithful, was to be feted and honored, and, in Mrs. 
Grundy’s eyes, to shine as the conquering hero, for whom 
a triumphant banquet had been prepared ; while Anne, 
whose whole life had been so devoted to her father that 
her health even had suffered, when, as a young girl, the 
responsibility of the house-keeping, and ordering, and 
managing, when means were not so plentiful, had weighed 
upon her bodily strength^nd nerves — Anne, whose con- 
duct had been in all points beyond praise, and who was 
crowned with the unseen marriage-wreath of the good 
daughter’s promised blessing, must stand back in a second- 
ary place, and be with her noble husband, as it were, 
but the accessories to her unworthy brother and his 
bride. 


XAT THE CAMARGUE. 


2G1 


Anne was too real, and true, and clear-minded not 
to know that this was the case ; but then, also, neither 
she nor Harry cared for the outside of life and the 
world. She shrank, too, from any very keen analysis 
of standards and principles which must influence her 
judgment of her father, as well as of Leopold ; and 
she Avisely resolved to consent to this outward con- 
formity to her father’s wishes, and to keep the peace 
in all external things with Car, while nothing should 
ever tempt her to put her husband or her children 
within reach of her conduct and wiles. These, which 
were very unlike most bridal thoughts, Anne was just 
now fastening into her mind, with the flowers, and veil, 
and wreath Avhich Janet and the lady’s maid, and Mrs. 
Stone, their old nurse, who had come to see the last of 
her darling Miss Morland, were arranging upon her 
head. 

‘^What makes you so grave. Miss Anne? Look up 
at me. Ah ! there’s your own smile, and your mamma’s. 
There’s nothing wrong when you can smile like that, 
Miss Anne. Bless your dear heart ! you was always as 
good as gold ! ” 

“So she was, nursey,” said Janet; “and as good as 
fine gold her husband will find her.” She added, sotto 
voce, in Anne’s ear, as Mrs. Stone went oflT for some 
sash or pins, “I wish I could think or say as much for 
our precious cousin ! ” 

“Hush, darling Jeanie ! Don’t breathe a word of 
such treason ! Mind, my own one, you are to be papa’s 
comfort, as well as his right hand, and you must not 


262 


IN THE CAMARGUE, 


contradict him. ‘ Let sleeping dogs lie, and they wonH 
bark at you.’ Only do you go straight and truly, my 
own sisterling ! ” 

Now, Miss Janet, my dearie, do let me put on her 
sash,” said Mrs. Stone, who had waited respectfully in 
the background thus far. “ They will be coming for 
her directly, and I should like our bride to be the first 
dressed ; and then, as the saying is, she’ll always be 
ready either for life or death. And you’ll excuse me, 
I know, my dear, for mentioning death on such a 
joyful day as this; but you’ll remember, I stood in 
your mother’s place, a’most, when that dear saint died ; 
and death will come to us all, even to you beautiful 
young brides in your time, and you must be ready, my 
dears.” 

Thank you, darling nursey ! ” exclaimed Anne, 
warmly, throwing her arms, round the old woman’s 
neck, as thorough a lady in all her thoughts and ways 
as ever went to court. Thank you, and God bless, 

you, darling, for all your good words and teaching. 
We should have been badly oflf, nursey, but for you. 
And mind, nursey, you must come into the vestry 
very quickly afterwards, because you are to have my 
first married kiss next to my own.” 

Here a hurried knocking was heard at the door, and 
Stone himself, in the fullest funereal attire, was there 
breathless, to beg of Miss Morland to come down at 
once. He exchanged the deepest admiring glances 
with his wife, and followed the sweeping white robes 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


263 


on which, perhaps, the wearer bestowed fewer thoughts 
than any bride bad ever done before. 

The carriages were soon packed, and not long after- 
wards the church. Everybody’s eyes were then in- 
stantly riveted on Car. Beautiful ! How beautiful ! ” 
audibly ran through the crowd of well-dressed spectators j 
for the whole academy was there, to say nothing of all 
their friends and relations, and, as the fairy tales say, 
everybody else besides.” Beautiful, indeed, was Car, 
as a picture to the outward eye. She was dressed 
exceptionally, too, as she always was, — in one long 
sweeping robe of rich, dead-white silk, without a flounce, 
or puffing, or flower upon its heavy, thick-falling folds. 
It was made high, cut square, with long sleeves, and 
on the shoulders were aigrettes with one large pearl. 
Her long, cloudlike, soft veil, falling from head to foot, 
shrouded her like thin mist, and was kept in place 
by a simple ring of pearls, with just one sprig of 
real orange flowers in front. As she raised her pale 
face and deep fringed eyes, with her lovely mouth 
opened a little, when Leopold took his place beside 
her, perhaps nothing had ever been seen so faultlessly 
beautiful. 

So Leopold thought, in a kind of intoxicated dream. 
Nasmyth, standing quietly behind, was thinking of 
another face, Avhich perhaps hindered his full appre- 
ciation of the beauty of this special one before him. 
His mind had flown back to a girl’s clear, innocent 
eyes, and pure brow, as she was singing at a spring, 
washing her milk-bowls and jars. He saw the same 


264 


IN THE CAM ARGUE. 


figure gathering leaves in a gold-fruited orchard, also 
singing as she gathered ; and his eyes actually filled 
with unwonted tears as he thought of Noel, deserted, 
and abandoned, and suffering, so far away, while Leopold 
seemed to have forgotten her as much as if she had 
been a dream that is told.’’ So completely absorbed 
was he with these thoughts, that when the clergyman 
paused, and he should have gone forward, Nasmyth 
actually started at the touch of his faithful ^^best man.” 
He came back quickly enough to the present, when he 
saw Anne standing at his side, and if anything could 
have deepened the sense of his resolve to love and 
cherish her truly for life and unto dea.th, and forever 
beyond, it was his flight of thought to Cabridelle. 

I cannot follow in detail, as I could wish, the fortunes 
of Anne and Harry Nasmyth. He took her abroad for 
a while, as he had business which required his personal 
overlooking in Italy and southern Germany. He was 
afterwards employed in Algeria, and then in Egypt, 
where wealth flowed in upon him, and Nasmyth’s 
fortune was made. After a few years they returned 
to London, where they bought land and built a 
charming house at Highgate, which became a kind of 
central point for a large circle of ‘‘good-doers.” There 
was no restriction of any kind as to the limits of this 
circle, except that no vulgarity of lion-showing or lion- 
hunting was allowed to find an entrance there. One 
celebrity often met there another celebrity, it is true ; 
not because they were celebrated, but because they both, 
in difierent ways, were striving to promote the same end. 


IN THE CAMARGUE, 


265 


The quaker lady, whose life was spent in conducting 
emigrants to Canada, there met the nobleman whose 
means and powerful influence had first started her plans 
or helped her to carry them out. Women-doctors, 
struggling against the narrowness of conventional 
class -barriers and the bitterness of selfish hate, met 
physicians there, and ended by reconciling all their 
differences, and becoming convinced that, as no truth 
can destroy another truth, so no really good work can 
ever injure another. And besides thus furnishing a 
nucleus for intelligent intercourse in their own society, 
the Nasmyths extensively promoted and originated 
meetings and discussion among working-men, which 
stirred up greater intelligence and breadth of action 
between masters and laborers, and made the influence 
of principle and fair-dealing widely felt. And as 
Harry’s great engineering works had made his name 
known throughout and beyond Europe, he was able to 
set on foot an extended and well-considered stream of 
emigration to prepared localities, which opened new 
homes and prosperity to many hundreds of his 
countrymen, who otherwise would have starved, or 
sunk into pauperism, or been branded with crime at 
home. 

None of us would probably care to linger over 
Leopold Morland’s career. It might, perhaps, be 
expected, in the natural course of events, that some 
poetical or other justice should have befallen him, 
which would have pointed this tale with more of a moral 
than it has. 


266 


m THE CAMARGUE, 


I have not, for my own part, found such morals 
always ready pointed in actual life. On the contrary, 
the wicked and the guiltily weak are still to be found — 
as in the Psalms — flourishing like the greenest of 
bay-trees. Leopold Morland, in fact, as I can but 
record the truth, amply fulfilled his father’s prognostics, 
and far outstripped him in his successful work and 
renown. He fell into the way of painting a kind of 
character portraits, which required little intellectual 
labor, and no elevation of thought, and for which he 
obtained almost fantastic sums. In the course of time 
he was chosen, chiefly upon the fame of these portraits. 
President of the Academy, and as Sir Leopold Morland 
attracted high-born crowds to his dinners, and soirees, 
and breakfast fetes, in the organization of which his 
beautiful wife showed her singular talent. It is true 
that Lady Morland, who never has had any children, 
is^much censured and talked about as an incorrigible 
and daring flirt ; but, as she has gone on flirting and 
being censured for some years, she will, probably, 
never run entirely off the line. My own opinion is 
that, much as she likes to amuse herself in her usual 
heartless way, she is much too fond of her present 
position, and all the comforts of her home and life, 
to run the risk of forfeiting them by any rashness of 
folly. 

Upon both these characters the curtain may be allowed 
to drop. 


m THE CAMAEGUE. 


267 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE HOSPICE SALOM^I. 

Noel was free; but how did she use her freedom? 
Did she fly back to the old convent at Aigues Mortes, 
and rejoice the heart of dear Mere Bauget by at length 
kneeling before the community in the Chapter Room, 
and demanding the postulant’s privileges, as the intro- 
ductory entry into the Benedictine Order ? 

No ; there is no record of her name to be found in 
the thick, yellow parchment register of that peaceful 
old nunnery. The groaning gates never rolled back to 
admit her as an inmate, nor did she ever trail her long, 
straight habit through the dove-haunted, moss-grown 
courtyard. Yet she was in the convent, many a time, 
before Mere Bauget died. 

Various thoughts had stirred in Noel’s brain since 
the time when the fiery anguish she had passed 
through had nearly thrown it oS* its balance. Her 
own deep burning sorrows and the passionate grief 
and indignation they had aroused, and the unhealed 
wounds which time had only skinned over, had, in 
the end, awakened in her loving heart the most intense 
desire to devote herself in some way to all the sorrowful 
and sufiering she could reach ; and especially the 


268 


IN THE CAMABGUE. 


sorrowful. She resolved, therefore, to settle herself at 
Les Stes. Maries, where so great a number of the 
afflicted of all kinds resorted, and to devote herself 
first to the care and soothing of the pilgrims in general, 
and then more specially to those unhealed, who must 
go empty away, not having been allowed even the 
crumbs which fell from the children’s table. Noel 
began by asking her father for nearly the portion she 
would have had if she had married ; and, almost to her 
own surprise, she obtained it from him. Of his own 
accord Privas also made over to her all that had been 
her mother’s dowry ; so that Noel, as a Proven§ale, was 
set up as quite a rich heiress, and felt more and more 
convinced that the way had been marked out for the 
work to be done. 

She went, therefore, to Les. Stes. Maries, and with 
the help of an old lawyer, a sort of cousin of her 
father’s, sought out and found an old, rambling house, 
which had probably been some kind of convent before 
the League wars, but of which all record had long 
been lost. This house was much battered and out of 
order, but was so thickly and solidly built, that it 
needed no substantial or expensive repairs. After 
some haggling and difflculties it was bought, and 
Noel took possession of it before one approaching May 
feast. She had laid out a certain sum in iron bed- 
steads, with plain, useful bedding, benches, tables, and 
crockery ; and when the poor maimed cripples, and 
blind, and sick, began to fill the town, Noel went out 
among them, and invited those whom she thought the 


IN THE CAMAJROUE. 


269 


most desolate and afflicted to come and lodge in her 
house. 

By a wise instinct, as if guided in all her acts, she 
avoided those touched with the fearful southern leprosy,^ 
which is infectious, and the bad fever cases ; but she 
brought in several lame people, two blind women, and 
some sick children, for whom her heart ached in their 
helpless misery. 

She cooked and prepared the simple food for her little 
flock, and found handy assistance from one of the lame 
women, who could work while sitting down. Noel 
talked to them sweetly and simply during the meals, 
and asked them to promise not to blaspheme or use any 
bad language, and to say some little short prayer, at 
their own choice, whenever the old chiming church 
clock struck. The poor, friendless people readily agreed 
to her little rules, and looked upon her almost as an 
angel come down to help them in their sore afflictions. 
Instead of sleeping on the sand, in all the dirt of their 
long journey, and without change of clothes, they found 
large pans of water provided to wash themselves, and 
then were helped into their clean and fresh, though 
coarse, beds. Having enjoyed such complete rest, 
therefore, Noffl’s little troop w’ere the first in the church, 
the first to touch the shrines; and this time every 
one of those she had housed went home cured. 

* Leprosy, traditionally said to have been introduced by the 
crusaders from the Holy Land, is certainly known in Provence and 
the Kiviera. There is a Leper’s Hospital at San Remo, which at 
this moment contains forty lepers. 


270 


JJV THE CAMARGUE. 


But there were many others, unhealed, among whom 
Noel went up and down like a ministering spirit, taking 
as many of them into her house as she could, and bearing 
gently with all their blasphemous words and passionate 
southern fury and disgust at not being cured. She 
called to mind all her little learning and knowledge, 
spoke to them of all she knew of Christ’s words and acts, 
and his pity and mercy, and convinced many of these 
poor creatures that it was their own evil state and want 
of sorrow for sin that was hardening their hearts, and 
preventing them from receiving any favors or benefit. 
Some of the incurables Noel established at once perma- 
nently in her house, only begging of them to behave well, 
and not wilfully to break any of the commandments. 
Thus the good work to which she had given herself was 
well and solidly begun. 

There were other moments, besides the time she gave 
to the Salome Hospice — so the Saintins called Noel’s 
old house, and it had an image of Mary of Salom^ put 
over the door — when she wandered away down the little 
dark troughs of side-streets and courts of the town, to find 
out still sadder cases than she could receive under her 
own roof. It was seldom that girls went astray and were 
quite lost at Les Stes. Maries, but sometimes a terrible 
case here and here might be found, when shame and 
despair — where such things were little known and held 
in horror — generally ended in some sort of madness, or 
chronic harmless wandering of the brain. These poor 
girls Noel would carefully seek out, and pour out her 
whole heart in comforting and leading them to some sense 


Iir THE CAMARGUE, 


271 


of real penitence, and return to their ordinary duties. 
Their poor little misborn children she generally took 
home to the hospice, where in time she took in two 
strong, good old women to help her, who had been cured 
at one of the May feasts. 

No voice was ever raised among the Saintins — to 
their honor be it spoken — to object to any of Noel’s 
charitable acts, either for the acts themselves, or because 
they were incongruous with other of her previous good 
works. They never said that they thought the hospice 
was exclusively for any purpose ; either for old women, 
or crippled men, or children. They accepted it with 
thankful joy just as it was, a sort of Hotel Dieu, in its 
true sense, where any poor soul in need of a shelter at 
the time, and not in a state dangerous to others, might 
be taken in for wine and oil to be poured in its wounds ; 
if it was necessary, to stay there for life ; if not, for a 
time, and then to be helped and speeded on its way. 

It was God’s work, they thought, and for God’s poor 
afflicted, and La Sainte could do exactly what it was put 
into her mind to do. 

It was worth while to see ‘^La Sainte” — as now 
Noel was secretly called among the townsfolk — at her 
day’s work. All the inmates of the hospice, who were 
not absolutely bedridden, got up at five o’clock, and went 
to the church to hear Mass. If there were any bedrid- 
den, the two old women, Soeur Martha and Soetir Marie 
Jacques, took it in turns to stay at home and take 
care of them, and that one meanwhile said morning 
prayers, and lit the marmite to prepare the breakfast. 


272 


Ijsr THE CAMARGUE. 


When everybody had returned to the hospice, Noel 
rang the bell, and all who possibly could, little and big, 
gathered in the hall and sat down to the clean but 
coarsely-covered long table, where soup and bread and 
milk, steaming hot, were served to them. After grace 
was said, Noel talked to them all, or rather heard what 
they had to say to her, attending to each in her simple, 
kindly way, leading them to what was right, instead of 
putting them straight with authority. After breakfast, 
they went into another large, clean room, where those who 
could not take part in the morning cooking and house- 
work had various means of useful occupation. There 
were distaffs, and sewing, and knitting, and palm-splitting 
for the women, and carving and basket or mat making 
for the men. Many a hundred of palm-leaf baskets were 
sold for their support, and the little olive-wood and Aleppo 
pine articles which they learnt to make became quite a 
staple trade in the town. At some time in the morning, 
just when it happened to be most convenient, the rosary 
was said, and if any one or two liked it, and no one ob- 
jected, some pious old songs were sung. At noon the 
Angelus was said to the deep voice of the old church 
bell, and directly afterwards, everybody gathered again 
in the hall for dinner. At dinner there was soup of a 
more nourishing sort than in the morning, sometimes 
meat, vegetables, and salad, and messes of polenta, or 
rice, or lentils with oil. Coarse bread was allowed to all 
at will; it was heaped up in great hunches on vast round 
wooden dishes in the middle of the table. The drink, of 
course, was the wine of the neighborhood, a very poor, 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


273 


thin kind ; but those who liked it better, and they were 
many, had goat’s milk. 

After dinner there was a short sleep, and some of the 
very helpless generally slept away a good part of the af- 
ternoon. Those who liked went out to the church, or to 
sun themselves on the sands in front of the church, tast- 
ing the sea-breeze, or to sit in the shade of the tamarisks 
and big walls, as the weather might be. Each one 
made a little visit to the church in the afternoon, as a 
rule, and there were some who spent there the whole of 
their spare time. At five o’clock came supper, and 
after supper more work was done till darkness set in, 
when most of the poor cripples went to bed with the 
birds. When all but the most helpful were settled for 
the night, Noel would say prayers for all in the large, 
divided sleeping-room, and then went out to the church 
herself, where she often remained till quite late, absorbed 
in prayer and so still, that you could scarcely believe 
she was alive. In the solemn gloom of that dim old 
church, before the three red lamps where the Blessed 
Sacrament was reserved, Noel learned to lay down the 
heavy burdens of her life, and take up strength to go 
on. When her loneliness and utter isolation from all 
sympathetic companionship, and the dreary stretching 
out of days which seems so endless to those who sustain 
any great shock or sorrow in youth, and the monotonous 
prospect of loneliness through all her life and her old age 
seemed too heavy to bear, then Noel would kneel hour 
after hour before that altar, wrestling for the needful 


274 


IN THE CAMAEGUE. 


strength to struggle on in the race, the lists, the hand-to- 
hand battle of life. 

And not a day passed by that she did not go to pray 
beside Rambert’s grave, whose life, as she felt, had been 
given for her, and while praying and weeping there, and 
hanging some little simple fresh wreath daily on his 
stone cross, Noel felt that she was forgiven, and that 
that noble soul was surely helping her now, though they 
had been severed with so much bitterness on earth. 


IN THE CAMARGUE. 


275 


CHAPTER XXVIIL' 

L’ ENVOI. 

One afternoon, in early spring, when she had been at 
Les Stes. Maries about five years, Noel was just hanging 
her little narcissus wreath on Rambert’s grave cross, 
when she saw two persons come out of the church, and, 
after looking about them for a few moments, walk quickly 
towards her — a lady and a gentleman — and her heart 
gave a quick throb with the mingling of many recollec- 
tions, as she recognized Harry Nasmyth’s familiar out- 
lines and voice. He came forward, with outstretched 
hand, to the slender, gray-clad figure, and said, ‘‘Here 
you are at last ! we have been seeking you everywhere. 
My wife wants to know you so much, that she could not 
be content to go back to England till I had brought her 
here.” 

Anne stepped forward, and warmly clasped her hand. 
“ You are Noel, I am sure ? ” 

“ I am Noel Privas, yes.” 

“I was afraid that it might be painful to you, Mile. 
Privas, to see us,” Nasmyth went on, in the old, deep, 
kind voice which Noel knew, oh! how well; “but I 
thought, if we could but once meet, that you would be 
sure to love my wife, as she has long loved you, and that 


276 


m THE CAM ARGUE. 


whenever you were in want of a friend she would be 
there then for you to come to.’^ 

He was walking on slowly through the cemetery 
as he spoke, and Anne followed at a little distance 
behind. 

“I wrote to your father,’’ Nasmyth went on, ‘‘and 
he told me where you were, and what you were doing ; 
at least in part, but I hope you will take us through the 
hospice — the Salome, is it not? ” 

“Yes, sir; we have dedicated it to one of the three 
Marys, which, you know, are specially our saints here. 
You have been in the church, I think? ” 

Without waiting for his answer, Noel then dropped 
her voice very low, and said, “ Is that lady — your wife 
— Anne ? ” 

Nasmyth assented, and, not wishing to stir up too 
many associations, he then made room for his wife 
between himself and Noel, and they went on talking to 
her about her poor incurables, till they came to the 
hospice door, where, after seeing the arrangements? 
, Nasmyth left his wife in Noel’s charge, and went back 
to the little inn to order some conveyance for the next 
day. He wisely judged that both the women were of 
the stamp soon to recognize each other’s worth, and to 
draw together in their own way. He^ was not mistaken. 
As soon as she had come into Noel’s room, Anne threw 
down her hat and cloak, and, putting her arms round 
Noel, kissed her affectionately, and said, with tears in 
her eyes, “ 0 Noel, my own real sister ! How long the 
years have been till I might tell you how I love you i 


m THE CAMARGUE. 


277 


You must forgive us; you must say that you will love 
me and Harry ? ’’ 

Noel struggled bravely not to lose her calm. She 
was much touched by Anne’s words, and deeply 
moved by the meeting, but her character had been so 
thoroughly tempered and purified, that nothing now 
could trouble her inner repose. My sister?” she 
murmured, in her sweet, touching voice; ‘^yes, you 
shall be always my sister, and my friend. But do not 
talk to me of any others, nor of the past. I have 
buried my dead ; let them not rise up again to scare me ! ” 

‘^The dead shall rest in their graves, dearest Noel; 
we will speak only of the present time. But I want 
you to think of coming, some time or other, to see us 
in England. Not yet, if you dislike it very much, but 
some time. Or, if you will not do that, to come to us 
in Paris, where you can see hospitals and prisons, and 
every kind of good and useful work, and beautiful 
churches, above all, which I know you would love. 
We would come to Paris any time on purpose, if you 
will but say yes. I want you to see my two boys, 
Noel, that you may pray for them. They are both just 
like my husband, and I cannot say how happy that 
makes me. The eldest is Harry, and the little one 
Paul, after my husband’s father. And I should like 
you to see our home, and to know all the good my 
husband is doing in London. Do you know, he says 
he learned so much from you, and I can well believe it 
now I have looked at you, my own sweet, sweet 
sister ! ” 


278 


m THE CAMARGUE, 


Anne had talked on, seeing how deeply Noel had 
been moved, and seeing also in her beautiful, uncon- 
scious face the response of pleasure and interest in 
everything she was saying. But at her last words 
Noel’s pale cheek very slightly tinged, and springing 
away, she said, Ah, no, no ! you must not say those 
things to me ! They are not the least true ; but they 
might do me some harm. I have always been only a 
poor, failing, mistaken girl, who never was likely to do 
anybody any good. But I believe your husband did 
get good from coming among our people and seeing 
their ways, and — and — I think also — he went to our 
feast once here in the church, and believed what he saw. 
That would certainly do him good.’’ 

‘‘It did,” replied Anne, in a low voice. “He has 
often talked to me about it, and he wished to be here 
this next May for it again ; but the heat is too great for 
me to bear, and we are going back directly to England. 
But we have seen you^ sister, and that has made my 
heart glad.” 

“You will come again,” said Noel, fixing her beauti- 
ful, clear eyes upon Anne. “ I do not think that I see 
your face now for the last time.” 

“You are a true prophet, I hope,” said Nasmyth’s 
strong, pleasant voice, as he came in behind them. “ If 
it cannot be anywhere else, it shall be here ; but I hope 

— and it has long been one of my most earnest wishes 

— that you will come back with us some day to stay 
with us in England.” 

“Bo not ask her to promise that now, Harry. She 


IK THE CAMARGUE, 


279 


will come to us if she can. If not, we shall come back 
to Les Stes. Maries and see our sister again.’’ 

The two women kissed one another several times 
before Nasmyth declared that he must take his wife 
away, and then Noel went with them to the door, and 
watched them as they walked down the old, narrow, 
picture-like street towards the inn. 

It was an evening and a sunset never to forget. 
Looking seaward there was the vast hyacinth-blue 
Mediterranean, across which lay a broad glory from 
the sun, now sinking into rosy clouds which radiated 
like a wheel through the opal sky ; landward stretched 
the wide plain of the wild, desolate Camargue with its 
giant reeds and canes. A long lessening wedge of wild 
ducks was drawn distinctly across the clear, transparent 
blue of the horizon. The distant cry of the birds in the 
marsh-pools and the faint ripple of the sea against the 
old yellow walls were the only sounds to be heard. 

Then the Angelus rang from the church. Nasmyth 
and Anne looked back and waved their hands to Noel. 
She was still there, in her flowing gray gown and little 
white cap, under which her thick coils of hair were 
tucked awayr, and which seemed to make her pure eyes 
and calm, pathetic face lovelier than ever. And over the 
deep archway, in the gloom of which she was standing, 
was the image of Mary of Salome, with its tiny lamp, 
in a little shrine. Then they turned the corner of the 
street, and saw her no more. 



Patience Strong’s Outings. 

BY MBS. DD. T. WECIXISTEY. 

Aitlior of “ Faitli Gartney’s Girlliootl,” “ Tlie Gayt ortliys,” U. 

Handsome cloth. Price, $1.50. 


"^PATIENCE STRONG^S OUTINGS^^ 

Is a peculiar and a rare book. The beautiful sympathy and 
intuition which shone in her former publications do not fail 
her in this. The ideas are of a deep significance, and are 
originally expressed. We do not remember any work 
similar to it in style. There is an incoherence, a disjointed- 
ness of phrase, which expresses far more than smoothness 
could. She writes as we talk when deep feeling moves us 
(reservedly, with averted face, as it were, treading with hesi- 
tation on such holy ground) , groping for expression which 
shall be forceful, yet, as far as possible, removed from senti- 
mentality or cant. She goes at once to the heart of life’s 
deepest experiences, and, with a simplicity beautiful as it is 
rare, one’s heart is moved with the noblest impulses, and 
softened by the tender pathos of her thoughts. We need not 
recommend such a book. The author’s name is recommen- 
dation enough. 

Patience Strong’s Outings are the outgoings of a woman 
whose apparent opportunities are mostly for staying in. 

The}^ are the Teachings of life beyond circumstance ; the 
book, therefore, is more of suggestion than story. 

The characterization and incidents are simply sufficient to 
connect and develop the thought. 

That “ the world owes everybody a living” is true in a 
better and higher sense than that in which the saying is 
ordinarily applied ; and in the sketch of the simple doings 
and happiness at Dearwood, and at the old house where 
Patience Strong bides her time and vindicates her christen- 
ing, one sees something of how the good gift that life is 
meant to be for eveiy soul, comes surely, even into such 
a quietness ; and that out of the world is got the full and 
'best world’s worth, by the simplest heart that looks and 
waits for it. 


»s 

By MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY. 

Handsome cloth. Price, 75 cents. 


This Story is written in the author’s quaintest vein, and pictures 
New England life with her usual felicity. It abounds with her unique 
and delightful ideas, one of which — Caroline’s way of teaching As- 
tronomy — is at once tersely and charmingly set forth. It is more 
than graceful, it is pathetic. Also, the scene between Dimmy and the 
Doctor is inimitable. Nothing could be more graphically drawn, and 
the Doctor’s mode of treatment at least affords food for thought. New 
England gossip is also hit off with racy strokes. The ghostly way in 
which the story turns is capital both in conception and writing, and 
is particularly suggestive to those disposed to discuss special Provi- 
dences. 

The ‘‘Experiment” seems to have been eminently successful. The 
only fault we can find with it is, that it is too short, and just tantalizes 
us with a taste of “ richness.” However, it makes up by being spicy, 
and its pungency will leave a lasting impression on its readers. 

Mrs. Whitney has counted on an amount of the organ of marvel- 
lousness in the American mind, which we feel sure will not fail hei, 
as we read with gusto all the doings of the black cat, who is perhaps 
as prominent as any of the characters, and we find ourselves so far 
carried away as to study profoundly the question as to whether or no 
she was “possessed” or “influenced”! At any rate, Mrs. Whitney 
has at least dreamed, in her philosophy, of some of the strange things 
in heaven and earth. — E. M. 



^EI\UB "jPui^OP 


J'he jj a yworthys. 

BY MBS. A. D. T. WHITNEY. 

Handsome doth. Pricey $2.00. 


Americans in England are amazed and delighted to find 
an American Novel” welcomed with such warmth and 
enthusiasm, by the “ cultivated ” and “influential,” in al] 
parts of the Kingdom. 

No American book is more universally known, read and 
talked about. 

The London journals, without exception, have given it a 
cordial welcome. Read what they say of it : — 

“ We wish to 'write our most appreciative word of this admirable and unexcep- 
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. . We can well afford to wait a few years now, if at the end wo are to receive 
from the same pen a work of such a character and mark as * The Gay worthys.* ” 

— Edeciic Journal. 

^ “ It is impossible not to welcome so genial a gift. Nothing so complete and del- 

icately beautiful has come to England from America since Hawthorne’s death, and 
there is more of America in ‘ The Gayworthys ’ than in ‘ The Scarlet Letter,* or 
‘The House with Seven Gables.’ . ... We know not where so much tender 

feeling and whole-some thought are to be found together as in this history of the 
fortunes of * The Gayworthys.’ ” — Reader. 

“ ‘ The Gayworthys * comes to us very seasonably, for it belongs to a class of 
novels wanted more and more every day, yet daily growing scarcer. We have, 
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feverish lips ail the grateful coolness of the unfermented grape.” 

— Pall Mall Gazette, 

“We have no misgivings in promising our readers a rich treat in ‘The Gay- 
worthys.* . . . ‘ The Gayworthys* will become a great favorite.** 

— Nonconformist, 

“ . . . The book is crowded with epigrams as incisive as this, yet incisive 

without malice or bitterness, cutting not so much from the sharpness of the 
thought as from its weight. Thei'e is deep kindliness in the following passage, as 
well as deep insight. . . . The tone of the story, the curious sense of peace 
and kindliness which it produces, comes out well in that extrac:, and the reader 
quits it, feeling as he would have felt had he been gazing half an hour on that 
scene — with more confidence alike In nature and humanity, less care for the noisy 
rush of city life, and yet withal less fear of it.” — Spectator, 

“ It is a pleasant book, and will make for the producer friends.** 

— Saturday Review, 

“ We venture to say no one who begins the book will leave it unfinished, or will 
deny that great additions have been made to his circle of acquaintance. He has 
been introduced to a New England village, and made acquainted with most of the 
leading villagers in a way which leaves the impression on him thenceforward that 
he knows them personally; that their fortunes and failures, and achievements, and 
misunderstandings are matters of interest to him; that he would like to know how 
Gershom Vose got on with his farm, and if Joanna Gair’s m.arriage turned out 
happily, and if ‘ Say * Gair was as interesting as a farmer’s wife as she has been 
as a little child.** 


Hitherto, 

A STOEY OF YESTEEDAYS. 

B'Y' ZD. T. WZiTTlNTE-Y-. 

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‘ ' Never could Idyll boast a nobler rustic lover than Rich- 
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described with more simple^ grace and quiet humor than tlie 
episode of Annie’s disgrace and the ‘ worrying * of her hide- 
ous bonnet. For an34hing equall}^ good, one is thrown back 
upon the recollections of Maggie in ‘ The Mill on the Floss.’” 
— Illustrated London News, 

‘‘ Our readers may order this book from the librar}^ with- 
out fear. There are touches of nature and family scenes 
which will find a readj" response in the female heart ; and 
there is nothing that can offend the modest}^ of the most 
fastidious critic.” — London Atlienoeum, 

“ Had we sufficient space, we might go on multiplying 
extracts of unmistakable beautv and originality ; but our 
readers must, if possible, procure the volumes for themselves, 
and so form their own opinion, which, we trust and believe, 
will entirely- agree with ours.” — London Literary World. 

“ The scenes and people are American, of the New Eng- 
land ty-pe, and in many- respects they" will remind those read- 
ers who are acquainted with them of Miss Wetherell’s works, 
‘The Wide, Wide World,’ etc., only" there is more strength 
and character about the present story^, though it abounds 
with philosophizing, and only deals with persons and acts of 
unimpeachable morality -.” — London Observer, 

“ How this is brought about we must leave our readers 
to ascertain from the book itself, which is far too well worth 
reading for us to wish to save any one the task of studying 
it. Especially" is the character of Richard Hathaway an 
exquisite conception — excellent in its weakness and in its 
strength, excellent in its shy self-depreciation, and y-et in its 
occasional glimpses of its own real worth and deservingness. 
We cannot think ourselves wrong in rating it as one of the 
most faithfully-drawn characters in modern fiction.” — Lon- 
don Literary Churchman. 

“ We can hardly recommend the book to mere novel-read- 
ers ; but to all who can appreciate a book of high purpose, 
of real power, of high interest, — for, though there is nothing 
sensational, the story has in it a wonderful amount of life 
and variety^, — it will prove a most inviting and useful com- 
panion.” — Londcm Nonconformist. 


Mother poosE for pLO poLKS. 

By Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 

A new, revised, and enlarged Edition. Six characteristic Illustrations 
hy Augustus Iloppin. Handsome cloth. Price, $1.50. 


There are some who may think that when Dr. Johnson once 
declared he could write the history of a broomstick, he said 
rather a daring thing. It is a pretty hard thing, no doubt, to 
write the history of a broomstick ; but to write philosophical 
poetr}^ upon nursery rhymes seems to us a much more difhcult 
piece of work. We do not positively know whether Dr, John- 
son could have written the history of a broomstick, but we aie 
certain that ]\Irs. Whitney can write capital poetry, and philo- 
sophical poetr}^, too, upon the nursery rhymes of a certain an- 
cient dame, yclept Mother Goose . — Star in the V/est. 

The grown-up children who have learned how much wit and 
wisdom are embodied in these amplifications of nursery texts, 
will be glad to see this new edition, enriched as it is by some 
of Hoppin’s cleverest penciUings. To those who have not read 
the book we commend it as one of Mrs. Whitney’s most happy 
conceptions. — Buffalo Express. 

She puts character, art, and soul into whatever she does, and 
few can read her book without being stirred to clearer thought, 
kindlier feeling, and better purposes. — Morning Star. 


j^AITH pARTNEY'S pIRLHOODr 

By MBS. A. D. T. WHITITET. 

Six Illustrations, by C. G. Bush. Handsome cloth. Price, $1.75. 


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It depicts that bewitching period in life lying between four- 
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‘‘ the best booh ever written for girls, 

A lady of rare culture says : — 

“ ‘Faith Gartney’s Girlhood ’ is a noble, good work, that 
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‘The book is written for girls, growing as they grow to 
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“ In these days, when the tendency of society is to educate 
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to be welcomed and gratefully received. Wherever it is read, 
it will be retained as a thoughtful, suggestive — if silent — 
friend.” 


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